


Anonymity

by ponticle



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, From Sex to Love, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memories, Physical Abuse, Redemption, current non-abusive relationship pending, dark pasts, past abusive relationship, vague bdsm mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2018-11-30 14:57:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 28,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11465964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponticle/pseuds/ponticle
Summary: 15 years after the Fifth Blight (9:46 Dragon), Zevran picks up a contract to kill the King of Ferelden. He has every intention of doing it… until…A story of two very damaged people, who heal each other under the least likely of circumstances.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story has some rather dark parts. I'm going to use these notes sections to warn you about individual chapters. 
> 
> This chapter references a bad past relationship. Zevran is filled with self-loathing--Alistair is too, for that matter. Also, explicit sex scene incoming.

* * *

Daylen Amell was a tyrant and a sadist. ...and Zevran was well acquainted with both— _is_. He’s still out there somewhere… the fact that he left doesn’t negate their relationship and it _certainly_ doesn’t do anything to erase the scars—emotional or otherwise.

He still remembers that day—the feeling when Daylen lived: elation, relief. He thought that things might change—in light of cheating death. _But they didn’t_. Just a few months later, Daylen was back to his old tricks—and a few months after that, he was gone. Even fifteen years later, Zevran still feels the sting of that rejection.

But Zevran is nothing, if not resilient. He knows that tyrants and sadists have a place in our society: they shape its future. Certainly, Daylen shaped _his_ —in ways he can never forget.

  

* * *

 

Zevran stands behind the throne—the back of his neck itches and he wants to scratch it, but he mustn’t. He can’t risk being seen. He’s so _close_ —all it will take is one swift swipe—a single flick of his wrist and the King of Ferelden will lie dead at his feet. And yet, something gives him pause. A gesture, a glance—something familiar in Alistair’s now-lined face. All at once, Zevran realizes—Daylen Amell changed _him_ too.

Instead of following through, he retreats, sweating and swearing under his breath. He doesn’t stop to collect himself until he’s so far into the forest that he’s lost sight of all but the dimmest light from the castle. He needs to finish what he started, but not tonight—not with visions of Daylen dancing in his head, _ruining_ him from the inside out. He thought the Blight was the ultimate sickness, but this has infiltrated him just as thoroughly as that could have.

He pays an innkeeper twice the usual rate for discretion and ventures down to the bar once he’s stowed his things. He looks from face to face warily. The older he gets, the more everyone seems to have a double—someone to take on the mantle of an old, retired friend. Tonight, Leliana’s duplicate makes eyes at him from across the crowded bar. He’s amenable to random sex, but with her it won’t be. He’ll be imagining someone he knew—someone he cared about—and that isn’t what he needs. So he smiles, but leaves alone, intent to find anyone in the darkest alleys who won’t remind him of someone good.

Weaving between barrels and dodging pools of rancid water and piss, he finds the types he’s looking for. They wear hoods and whisper to each other in strangled tones, low enough not to be recognized. When he finds one such person, huddled in the corner, he _knows_ —this is the one. He wears a thick, dark cloak—its fabric belies its value: heavy and expertly stitched.

He doesn’t say hello. He doesn’t even _try_ to see the person’s face. In fact, he pulls his own hood further down to assure he isn’t illuminated. Anonymity is a constant friend.

Now that he’s closer, he can see this stranger’s form. He’s tall and broad and doesn’t hunch even though they’re in an alley looking for sex. Most people _do_ ; they shrink into the shadows. It’s that air of confidence that attracts Zevran to him the most. So when he gets within half a foot, Zevran reaches out and grabs the crotch of his pants. It’s a presumptuous move, but there is no secret as to why they’re here. The man seizes Zevran’s hand and holds it against the outline of his rapidly stiffening cock. The grip is tight—tighter than anyone has grabbed Zevran _since_ …

He pulls his hand back, rough and swift, but not angrily. Some small voice insists that this is what he deserves. So when the man pushes down on his shoulders, forces his knees into the dirt, and shoves his cock into Zevran’s face, he _takes_ it—licks it from tip to root. The smell of salt and sweat mixes with whatever disgusting liquids have been previously deposited in this alley. It stings his nose and burns the back of his throat, but he doesn’t stop. This is who he is—a person whose worth is defined by the number of sex acts he can perform… by his efficiency in pleasing someone else.

The man grabs the back of Zevran’s head and draws angry circles in the scalp, urging him on. Still, Zevran does not protest. He knows how to get out of situations when he wants to, and he _doesn’t_ —want to. He wants to swallow this cretin’s come and wipe the excess spit from his lips. He might even want to fuck someone— _something_ … a hand or a mouth or an ass—it makes no difference, as long as he doesn’t have to _think_ , doesn’t have to be _reminded_. So he sucks and licks and tugs with all his might. In his haste and melancholy, his hood falls back, but he doesn’t pause to retrieve it. He has a goal and—

Suddenly, the man backs up. His cock slides free—slick and glistening, but shrinking already. Zevran looks up, trying to discern what the hell happened, but he can’t—the man is already retreating into the deeper shadows.

He knows he shouldn’t follow, but curiosity gets the better of him and he _does_ —he sneaks through the alley and slides into a local tavern, known for its back rooms. He knows he saw the man come in here, but all he has to go on is a cape—grey and dark. He scans the room from left to right. In the corner of his eye, he sees it: a flourish of fabric against the warm wood tones of the inn and a door gliding shut.

He picks the lock almost without thought—he could do this asleep. The door swings open with an audible whine. It isn’t his usual style, but he doesn’t much care. There’s a person on the other side of this door who left at a strange time—he wants to know why.

The man’s back is to him; the cape is crumpled on a chair nearby. Without it, Zevran can see evidence of a warrior’s frame—mature muscle and thick, branching limbs. Then he turns.

“Hello,” says Alistair.

 

* * *

 

**Alistair**

Alistair always _knew_ this would happen—his iniquitous predilections would ultimately trap him.  He shifts his weight from foot to foot. It’s all he can do to stop himself from running from the room—running from him: Zevran.

Zevran doesn’t say anything for a while; he takes trained steps to the left—foot over foot, never breaking eye contact—blocking Alistair’s exit. It’s unnerving, but Alistair isn’t worried about _that_. He’s too concerned with the fact that Zevran’s spit is still drying on his cock.

“Your _Majesty_ ,” Zevran growls.

Alistair winces at the title. He hasn’t felt very much like a King in years—maybe ever. He has the blood for it, but not the stomach. It’s one of the things that drove him here—to alleys like this one where no one knows his name. It’s not about the sex. It’s about the anonymity. It’s about forgetting.

Zevran tips his head to the side. He’s waiting for something, but Alistair can’t tell what. So he moves—three calculated steps forward until they’re nearly face to face. Time stretches and shatters. He grabs the back of Zevran’s head and pulls him in, lips crashing against teeth, a hint of iron.

Zevran struggles. He bites down on Alistair’s lower lip hard enough to draw blood.

Alistair grabs Zevran’s waist with his free hand and pulls him in tight—hip to hip, chest to chest. At that, Zevran stops struggling, but he doesn’t go limp, either. Alistair feels him coil into a flexible spring of power—ready to fight or flee at a moment’s notice. He’s deciding.

They stare at each other, lips still glistening and barely an inch apart.

“Well?” says Zevran.

That’s all Alistair needs to hear. He moves his hands to the buckles of Zevran’s armor—it’s intricate; he slips and fumbles: fingers too big to unfasten with this level of urgency.

Zevran laughs—low and growling. “Let me.”

Alistair drops his hands to his sides and watches as Zevran undresses—simultaneously more quickly and more slowly than Alistair can imagine doing it. It’s like he’s peeling back layers of pretence to reveal what’s beneath:

It’s skin— _perfect_ skin—full of winding tendrils of ink and striation of muscle. He isn’t as young as he once was, but there is no mark on him to bely that truth. He looks pristine against the light of the fire—like a dwarven-made sword, glinting in the sun.

When he’s down to his last layer of clothing—white knickers, drawn together with a string so flimsy-looking Alistair thinks he could rip it with the impetus of just one finger—Alistair sucks in a breath. He doesn’t mean to, but it happens.

“Why are you still dressed?” asks Zevran.

Alistair fumbles to get out of his clothes. He hesitates on the last layers, though, since Zevran didn’t take them off either. Now, it seems, they’re at an impasse—each waiting for the other to blink. He knows this feeling from battles fought so long ago. It has been an _age_ since he held a sword.

“Come over here,” Alistair says. He’s _asking_ , actually, but it comes out sounding like a demand, for which he’s thankful as soon as Zevran’s expression changes. It goes from questioning to obeying in a second. He wonders _why_ —Zevran has never had to obey anyone, has he? Hasn’t he lived on his own? Doesn’t he go where he pleases and do what he wants? Not like his own fate—the weight of the world rests on Alistair’s shoulders. His power is a thinly veiled prison.

Zevran trails his fingers across the expanse of Alistair’s chest, dipping below the edge of his pants. Since he’s already seen his cock, there shouldn’t be much to worry about, but he _is_ worried—caught up in the moment and his own fear. He feels a decade younger and just as inexperienced, but he manages to bury his mouth in Zevran’s neck. It’s clumsy—teeth and lips and too much spit—but Zevran shifts and sucks in the tiniest of gasps.

Feeling emboldened, he backs up until his thighs hit the edge of the bed and he’s falling. Zevran climbs atop him and grinds their cocks together. It’s rough—linen and twine stuck between them—but they rut until the cloth burns and Alistair has finally had enough. He grabs the waist of Zevran’s pants and _pulls_ —that string breaks as easily as he thought it would and the fabric falls away.

“Anxious?” asks Zevran. It sounds like a threat.

“Yes,” admits Alistair. He’s too far gone to return. He’s too _ready_ to stop. He works on the drawstring of his own pants and kicks them down to his ankles, with no small amount of effort.

Zevran eyes him hungrily now that he’s naked. He slides down the expanse of his body until he’s curled in a ball over his hips. “Shall I?” he asks. The words escape through the vice of a smirk, but before Alistair can really evaluate them, Zevran has swallowed him whole. His tongue swirls absent circles as he sucks and bobs. For a split second, Alistair thinks he’s going to come right then—staring at the ceiling of this tiny anonymous inn. But Zevran drops him, lets him go with a pop.

Alistair raises his head to look down. He feels like someone else—someone whose choices _aren’t_ predetermined by lineage or money or the whims of those in power. He feels like someone who can _do_ , who can _enjoy_. So that’s who he becomes.

Zevran breathes raggedly, his lips glistening and cheeks red. He’s waiting—for something, for someone, for some tiny signal. Alistair doesn’t know how to give Zevran any of that, but he knows what he wants. He knows that pull in his gut. It’s _not_ the thing that led him to the alley. It’s the thing that led him to the Archdemon. It’s the thing that allowed him to emerge unscathed, when so many others didn’t. It’s _bravery_.

He pulls and pushes Zevran until he has him face down on the mattress. He watches Zevran grind roughly into the sheets and runs a palm across the expanse of his back. He’s incredibly beautiful, but more than that he’s hollow, vacuous, _wanting_. Alistair leans down to kiss the edge of one shoulder blade. It’s a gamble because they aren’t lovers: they haven’t spent the prerequisite amount of time kissing each other’s mouths before moving on to kissing everything else. But it isn’t much of a _kiss_ either—it’s more like a bite.

“Harder,” says Zevran suddenly.

That’s all it takes. He bites into the skin, deep enough to leave an indent. It’s simultaneously titillating and terrifying. He isn’t sure what’s gotten into him. He’s never wanted anything like this before, but with Zevran stretched out beneath him, his legs trapped under Alistair’s hips, he wants things he never imagined.

He drags his teeth across the surface of Zevran’s back and sinks them into his hip. Zevran groans with each individual bite—louder when they’re harder. He keeps craning his neck to see what Alistair is doing. It’s an audience of one, but an audience Alistair wants to impress, nevertheless.

Then he says something. Alistair can’t understand it over the mental chatter and all the slurping, wet noises, but he stops instantly. He _knows_ Zevran’s mouth moved.

“What?”

“Touch. Me.” repeats Zevran.

Alistair blinks. He isn’t even really sure _how_ , other than to shove his hand under Zevran’s hips and grab his trapped cock where it’s squished against the mattress. So that’s exactly what he does. He grips it in a firm fist and tugs with limited success.

Zevran groans—one part arousal and one part frustration.

Alistair steadies himself on his other arm and hovers, deciding.

“Alistair?” whispers Zevran.

 _That’s his name_. It’s the first time Zevran has said it in more than a decade.

“Alistair?” Zevran repeats—a little sharper this time.

Alistair remembers how to make his hands work. He grabs Zevran’s hips and yanks them backward. If someone had done that to him, Alistair would have struggled to find his balance, but Zevran doesn’t—he lets his elbows rest on the bed and pushes back. But it isn’t a _static_ posture—nothing about it is fixed in space. He’s gently swaying, dancing to some internal music.

Alistair wraps his hands around Zevran’s hips and finds his cock with both hands. He doesn’t have much leverage in this position—reaching around from behind—but when he leans forward, his own dick rubs against the skin of Zevran’s ass. It’s not gentle, either. The harder he tugs, the more the whole bed moves, adding an element of unpredictability to the mix.

“Alistair?”

There’s that name again— _his_ name.

“What are you here for?” asks Zevran. He doesn’t whisper—his voice is rough, but loud. The volume makes Alistair wince—as if some person on the other side of the door will hear and he’ll be exposed. Then he remembers: he isn’t _anyone_ right now—he’s a _man_ , with desires… and ways to fulfill them.

He drops onto the mattress so they’re nearly face to face. “I’m here for you,” he says.

Zevran smirks. Maybe he thinks that’s acceptable? Who can tell? His expressions are confusing at best and downright deceptive at worst. He’s always been like that—and yet, he’s here… now…

Alistair wraps a hand around Zevran’s head and pulls their lips together. It’s sloppy and lazy—all spit and tongues and teeth.

Then there’s something else—fingers? He opens his eyes to find Zevran licking and sucking the first two digits of his own left hand. He looks like it’s the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted, although the skin is rough and calloused. When he’s deposited an alarming amount of spit, he gestures with his eyes and Alistair knows what he’s supposed to do.

He reaches between Zevran’s thighs and under his dick—which is hard to ignore since it jumps at him as he brushes it. The muscle twitches as Alistair pushes his index finger against it. Zevran shivers. Alistair can’t tell if it’s a calculated gesture or something more genuine—it hardly matters. Right now, all Alistair can control in the world is his first two fingers and they only have one job.

He scoots down and _pushes_ —harder than he thinks he should. Zevran nods. A tiny, almost imperceptible, acknowledgment that Alistair needs in order to feel like a person and not a predator. So he pushes harder—he fucks his fingers in and out until it’s easy, until he’s rutting into nothing while his fingers blaze a trail.

Zevran’s eyes snap open. His face is only a few inches higher than Alistair’s, but when he leans in to kiss him, it feels like he’s leaning _down._ It’s an odd feeling—no one ever leans _down_ to Alistair, in fact, it’s the exact opposite of a bow. Now, not only is he a person who doesn’t have to lead, he’s a person who isn’t revered at all. He might as well be invisible. It’s never felt so good.

“Fuck me,” says Zevran.

Alistair nods and jumps up. He wishes the situation was different—that he had _something_ for this scenario, but he doesn’t. So this is going to be rough. He looks back and forth between Zevran’s face and his dick.

“My bag?” says Zevran. He raises an eyebrow like Alistair is an idiot, which he _is_. He left looking for sex tonight without any thought for practicality.

A fumbling mess of fingers, he manages to find the pot of _something_ and spread it where it needs to go.

Zevran stretches out in front of him on the bed. The blunt head of Alistair’s cock nudges against him—testing patency or his own _resolve_ , he’s not sure.

...and then everything snaps into place. He finds himself thrusting with considerable force. He isn’t sure how he got there—he doesn’t even remember the awkward process of the first few thrusts. All he knows now is the backward grind of Zevran’s hips and the drag of his cock. Someone whimpers—it takes him a second to realize it’s _him_.

“Eager?” laughs Zevran. It’s more of a critique than anything, but Alistair can take it. He grabs Zevran’s hips strongly enough to leave bruises and grinds himself forward. It occurs to him that this is hurting _both_ of them, but isn’t that what they wanted? Isn’t that what led them to the alley in the first place?

While he’s still considering it, he loses use of his faculties and comes too shallowly. He spills down onto Zevran’s thighs. He shakes and backs up, suddenly too sensitive and too self conscious to be touched.

 

He watches Zevran with curiosity as he finds a towel across the room and cleans himself. He has an enviable erection, but he utterly ignores it. It’s only when he realizes that Alistair’s eyes are following him that he straightens again and runs his palm over the length.

Alistair nods. It’s all he can do right now, but he wants to say, ‘Don’t stop doing that. Touch yourself. You’re so beautiful like this.’

Zevran smirks and walks back toward the bed, stopping just short. His dick hovers in the air just above Alistair’s head. He rubs it from root to tip in lazy circular patterns. It’s complicated, Alistair realizes—not like anything he has ever done to himself. Alistair almost laughs: Zevran is so experienced he’s even reinvented masturbation.

“What?” asks Zevran. He’s still smirking.

“Nothing,” stammers Alistair. He finds that his muscles are starting to work again, so he sits up and leans forward. Zevran pushes his dick toward Alistair’s lips.

His cock tastes like something. It’s hard to say what, though. Maybe it’s more of a feeling? Either way, it’s something good—something Alistair feels like he needs and it makes it easier to wrap his hands around to the back of Zevran’s thighs and pull him forward. He finds himself trying not to choke while Zevran thrusts into the back of his throat. He’s sure there’s a warning—some small gesture that he was supposed to acknowledge if he wanted this to stop, but he missed it. Before he knows it, he’s swallowing around spasms and copious amounts of liquid.

In the silence that follows, he drags the back of his forearm across his lips and stumbles toward the water basin. They wash without looking at each other. Alistair finds it incredibly awkward, but he doesn’t think Zevran feels it at all. At least, he doesn’t let on if he does—not that he _would_.

“Well… thank you?” says Alistair awkwardly.

Zevran laughs and shakes his head. He pulls his pants on and sighs at the broken drawstring.

“If you stayed the night, I could have some new pants brought up for you,” says Alistair.

“ _What_?”

“Discretely,” clarifies Alistair. “They would be left outside and I could get them for you in the morning.”

Zevran raises an eyebrow. Alistair assumes he will refuse, but he doesn’t. Instead, he takes a few steps closer and tips his chin up to kiss him. It’s slower than before—less extreme without the pulsing fury of arousal behind it. But it’s also something _else_ —something significantly more gut wrenching.

Alistair shivers. “Stay.” It sounds like a command again. This time he means for it to.

Zevran opens his eyes and looks up. He doesn’t take a single step back or even blink.

“Fine,” he says, dropping his things and walking back toward the bed. He lays out the blankets, fluffs the pillows, and climbs between the sheets, naked and beautiful. And Alistair follows, because it’s the only thing in the world he can think of that he _wants_ to do.

 

* * *

 

**Zevran**

 

It doesn't feel good to stay. Zevran has never liked sleeping in anyone else's bed. In fact, he can't really sleep at all. He only knows how to fuck and how to leave. But tonight, something keeps him stuck in place. It isn't the weight of Alistair's arm, which is substantial, but easily escapable. It feels like something else—nostalgia or sentimentality, or something equally as implausible and _inappropriate_ for a Crow…

No one ever really leaves the Crows, but he almost did once. He ran to Kirkwall before they caught him. It was then that he realized he had a choice: run forever or give in and do what he’s good at. He chose the latter. If he had known it would lead to this, though, he might have chosen something else.

He _could_ still finish the job, of course. He could grab a knife and slit Alistair’s throat where it’s exposed, just three inches from his nose. He could suffocate him with a pillow and no one would ever be the wiser. It would be the Crow _way_ , really—to fuck and to kill in rapid succession. ... _but he doesn’t do that._ He doesn't even _want_ to.

 

He lies awake until morning. When Alistair finally wakes, he pretends to be asleep.

“Good morning,” says Alistair. He looks twenty in this morning light, despite the patches of grey in his hair.

Zevran goes through the motions of waking up, for show. He blinks a few times and manages a smile. When Alistair leans in to kiss him, he doesn't even pull away.

“You taste like blood,” he says.

Alistair blushes. “I think that's your fault.”

Zevran smiles—a devilish smile that makes him feel (and probably look) like a cat. He isn't sure what he's getting at, though. It's just a reflex.

“What time is it?” asks Alistair. He rolls onto his side and smiles. It’s the most absurd thing he could possibly do, in Zevran’s estimation. He’s acting like they’re married, not like they met in an alley— _re-met_.

“I don’t know—but the sun’s up… that can’t be good.” Zevran hops out of bed and peeks through the window. He’s careful not to let his face show, should anyone be looking back. It’s an old habit, but one he practices every day. He’s _always_ running in his mind.

Alistair lets his feet drop off the side of the bed, but he doesn’t really look awake yet. He blinks and yawns, stretching his arms overhead.

Zevran tries to ignore him. He gathers his things and pulls on his outerwear _without_ the new undergarments he was promised. He’d rather just _go_ —in fact, he should have left last night. He still doesn't know why he didn’t.

“So what are you doing here?” asks Alistair suddenly.

Zevran doesn’t freeze—he’s too well trained for that—but his brain snaps into a hyper-alert state that helps him when he’s cornered. He turns, fixing his face into a smile. “I come and go as I please—you know that.”

Alistair shrugs—a strange expression crossing his face. “I imagine that must be nice.”

Zevran laughs. “But you’re the king? Surely, no one can tell _you_ what to do… you seem very good at giving orders, actually.” He smirks at the bed.

Alistair only manages a perfunctory nod.

“Well, Alistair,” Zevran clears his throat at the door. “I have to go.”

Alistair stands—still naked and handsome, but pitiful-looking. “Don’t.”

Zevran feels the pull of that word—feels it in his bones. He wants to obey it so much. Maybe it’s because he can’t think about Alistair without thinking about Daylen. Maybe it’s because they’re so similar looking or because they spent the hardest year of their lives together, but he can’t _imagine_ a scenario where he could deny Alistair something he wouldn’t have denied Daylen.

Like a reflex, he drops his things.

Alistair swallows hard. “Come here.” He opens his arms.

Zevran feels like his feet are spelled to move forward. They don’t have his permission to do it and yet they do. He finds the skin of his cheek pressed against Alistair’s shoulder—arms holding him tight.

 _What is this: a hug_?

Maker, it’s been an _age_ since someone hugged him—since he would _allow_ such a thing.

He shakes his head free and manages to take a step back. He can’t leave the room, but he doesn’t have to be _this_ —weak, subservient, indentured. He doesn’t remember how he did it before, but he got out once. He can do it again.

“Alistair—I need to go,” he says.

“Not yet.” 

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair and Zevran meet for a second time, under confusing circumstances. Zevran remembers Daylen Amell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: the memory in this chapter depicts domestic abuse, primarily of the emotional variety. I'm using it to set the stage for why Zevran is so emotionally unavailable, but you can easily skip the memory and still read this story. Just stop reading at "15 years ago" and skip to "Presently."
> 
> Thanks!

* * *

**Alistair**

 

Alistair knows that his time is limited. He looks down at Zevran, who is licking the underside of his cock with a flat tongue. They only have a few minutes left. He _dreads_ the orgasm he’s been circling for an hour because it signifies the end—the part where Zevran leaves this room and he has to go back to his life: the life he loathes—where he isn’t anyone except a figurehead.

His mind hitches. _This_ is the life he didn’t choose: the one Daylen Amell chose for him. Daylen is the common thread: the person who ties them together, even though they haven’t seen him in a decade and a half. He wishes he didn't think that, considering what Zevran and Daylen were to each other. Does Zevran think of him with as much mixed admiration and animosity as Alistair does? Does _Zevran_ miss him every day of his life? Does _Zevran_ picture that this is Daylen’s cock in his mouth, whimpering incoherently that he’s about to spill?

 _Fuck_.

He comes unexpectedly again—this is becoming an embarrassing trend. Zevran handles it excellently, though; he doesn’t let a single drop spill onto the sheets. When he’s done, he politely licks his lips and manages to smile. He’s so good at this; it’s absurd…

“Next time, we’ll have to meet somewhere else,” says Zevran.

“Why?” asks Alistair. He’s still breathless and sweaty, but he’s already thinking about ‘ _next time_.’ Until this very second, he wasn’t sure there would _be_ one.

Zevran doesn’t regard him, though. He walks across the room to start dressing. “Because we’ve met here twice now—suspicion rises with every repeat trip.”

“Oh.”

Alistair manages to prop himself up on his elbows. He wants to ask when ‘next time’ will be—specifically—but he doesn’t. _This_ time, he only had to wait a week for a raven—although he wished it was sooner. Every day between the first time and this one he rubbed himself raw remembering the way Zevran sucked his fingers; the way Zevran’s come dribbled down his chin. It’s dirty and forbidden—maybe that’s why he liked it so much. A king can have almost anything, but not _this_.

“I have a small house on the outskirts of the city,” volunteers Alistair. “It’s meant for visiting dignitaries—there’s no one in it now.”

Zevran looks up, nonplussed. “You expect me to meet you there? Are you planning to cloister me as an ambassador or something?”

Alistair wants to laugh, because that’s _funny_ , but he doesn’t think he’s supposed to. After the haze has lifted, Zevran is sad—this time _and_ the last. It’s settling between them like fog, even now.

“You would be an _excellent_ ambassador,” Alistair says. It’s less of a joke than he means it to be.

Zevran smiles—the calculated kind.

Just then, someone knocks.

Alistair wants to bolt, but Zevran puts a finger across his lips. He straightens his shirt and slips out the door without opening it more than half a foot. On the other side, he whispers with someone. It’s a low voice—not friendly in the least.

“Just get it done,” says the someone.

Zevran’s response isn’t loud enough to hear, but it smacks of acquiescence. He just agreed to something. Alistair has a feeling that he should know _what_ —that it might be important in the future.

He manages to keep his face neutral when Zevran comes back inside.

“You need to leave,” says Zevran.

Alistair tries not to let it show, but rejection coils in his gut. It hurts in the way so many things do—in the way his whole life hurts.

“Now,” adds Zevran. His left eyebrow rises, seemingly of it’s own volition. He gestures toward the door.

Alistair stands, but he doesn’t dress. Instead, he walks toward Zevran and wraps his arms around him. It’s a command masquerading as a hug: _stay._

Zevran shakes him off with surprising alacrity. “Get out, Alistair.”

Every time Zevran says his name, Alistair shivers: at first, he thought it was a function of not hearing that name between Zevran’s lips for so long, but Alistair thinks it’s something else now. Something that has to do with transparency. In some ways, Zevran thinks Alistair knows who he is in a way very few do. He loves and loathes it.

“Get. Out.” repeats Zevran.

“Fine.”

 

* * *

 

* * *

 

**Zevran**

 

Zevran watches Alistair leave with prejudice. The inside of his mouth still tastes like come and his lips feel bruised, but he wants Alistair _gone_. Outside that door, just a second earlier, he received a not-so-friendly reminder that he needs to finish this contract. His side is _bleeding_ as Alistair leaves, but he wills himself not to touch the wound—not to acknowledge the blood trickling down the inside of his vest. Thanks to Daylen, he _knows_ pain—and how to ignore it.

The moment Alistair does, in fact, leave, though, he has to inspect the damage. He bolts the door and rips his upper layers off to find a rapidly clotting wound. The sharp point of a dagger pierced the skin in a non-essential area. One inch in any direction and he’d already be dead. It was a warning—the next wound would be the fatal kind.

He washes its edges and sews it shut with a dull needle from his pack. In times passed, he would have fucked a healer in exchange for a potion or spell, but he doesn’t this time. He can handle a wound like this on his own—he doesn’t need help. A voice inside insists maybe there’s another reason.

He laughs aloud. “Your ass is still sore, Zev. Let that heal and then deal with the rest of this.”

He started talking to himself in the year after the Blight. He was alone and found the sound of his own voice comforting. At first, he thought it was a sign of mental deterioration, but now he thinks they’re the smartest conversations he can have. They’re _certainly_ the only ones where someone looks out for his own best interests. In what _other_ situation is that assured? It certainly wasn’t with Daylen.

 

* * *

 

**15 Years Ago**

 

 “This is something I have to do,” says Daylen. He doesn’t yell—that isn’t his style. Instead, he whispers.

At first, Zevran didn’t know that whispering was a signal—now he does. He keeps his mouth shut.

“You understand that, don’t you?” asks Daylen. He grabs Zevran’s jaw and pulls it up—hard.

Zevran nods, but he keeps his eyes on the ground. He doesn’t dare look up any more than he dares speak.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you,” growls Daylen.

Zevran blinks.

Daylen’s hand relaxes and he smiles.

At the beginning, Zevran would have smiled too—when he thought it meant they were done fighting. Now he knows this is just preamble. He’s waiting for Zevran to show some kind of weakness. Zevran won’t do it—not this time.

“Well?” snaps Daylen. “Don’t you have anything to _say_?”

Zevran bites the inside of his cheek to keep from speaking. The best thing he can do is stay silent. It doesn’t matter that this compromise might change everything—that other people might die… they have nothing to do with him. His _only_ job is to keep his face still. His _only_ job is to be silent.

 _Silent. Still. Sullen. Safe_.

Daylen steps away from him so quickly, Zevran almost flinches. “Forget it, Zev—you wouldn’t understand, anyway.”

Zevran still doesn’t move. He watches Daylen pace a trail into the grass.

“I mean… you’ve never been a warden—you’ve never had people _depending_ on you,” adds Daylen.

Zevran knows he’s still being baited. If he can just stay quiet for another second, he’ll be safe. He counts Daylen’s steps and silently recites an old dalish poem.

“Come here,” says Daylen, suddenly. He grabs both sides of Zevran’s face and kisses him—so hard it hurts.

But it’s the hurt that Zevran needs—it’s the hurt that means Daylen _loves_ him. It’s the hurt that acts as the transition from fighting to making love.

“I’m sorry, Zev,” says Daylen. “You know how I get…”

Zevran chances a smile. It’s safe now—he can relax. He opens his lips and lets Daylen’s tongue slide inside. He tastes like spring—wet and fresh. They moan together, lips, tongue, and teeth giving way to sighs and groans.

And then… Daylen shoves his hand down into Zevran’s pants. Their tenuous reconciliation evaporates.

Daylen backs up, suddenly quiet again— _dangerous_.

Zevran straightens. He tries to keep his face neutral, but he knows his mistake. He should have been _ready_ ; he should have _made sure_.

“You’re holding out on me now?” asks Daylen.

Zevran shakes his head. He smiles, like he has in so many other dangerous situations, but it’s no use. Flames erupt against Daylen’s palms.

“I’m _not_ —come here,” says Zevran. He drops to his knees and rucks up the layers of Daylen’s robes. “I _do_ want you— _always_. Let me show you.”

Daylen pulls away, but not hard. Zevran thinks he might be okay—this might _all_ be okay—just as the burning starts on the back of his neck.

 

* * *

 

**Presently**

 

...and yet Zevran _misses_ him—every fucking day.

When his wound is mended—within an acceptable margin of error—he sets about packing up his things. He doesn’t have much, but he _does_ have an inauspicious set of armor and a pair of daggers. He throws everything into a neat little pack and is about to leave when he sees something else—something too shiny to be the worthless junk of a previous guest.

He grabs the glinting object from the foot of the bed—it’s tangled with the sheets. Upon closer inspection, it’s a locket. It’s worn enough that it doesn’t open anymore, but he knows—it’s Alistair’s; it _must_ be. How typical—for him to leave behind something so obvious.

It’s an excuse, though—an excuse to see each other again. Why Zevran would _want_ one of those is confusing, but the thought is there before he can stop himself.

_What’s one more fuck?_

The better question is how did they end up together _today_?

The logic that led to _this_ meeting was rather convoluted: Zevran argued (with himself) that he shouldn’t go back to the palace to kill Alistair. He’d already snuck in there once—doing it again would increase his chances of capture, which he wouldn’t much like.

So… he should lure Alistair back to the inn under the guise of a sexual encounter. If he’s honest with himself, Zevran wasn’t even sure that Alistair _would_ be lured by that. They’d already fucked, after all—after the initial shock wears off, sex is just sex. _Isn’t it?_

Either way, the plan _did_ work… until… Zevran couldn’t hold up his end. He ended up with his cock lodged several inches deep in Alistair’s ass before he even realized he wasn’t going to go through with it. Even now, he can’t figure out why. And then it was over—come in his mouth and sweat across his brow. And he let him— _made him_ —leave...again.

If there’s one thing Daylen taught him it’s that mercy is rarely rewarded. It certainly won’t be in this circumstance—the wound in his side is evidence of that already.

It’s time. He has to finish this once and for all.

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran tries to resist seeing Alistair again, but can't quite do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are more memories in here that could be disturbing to some readers. They are, again, easily avoidable (just skip everything between '15 years ago' and 'presently').
> 
> Thanks!

* * *

**Zevran**

           

Zevran spends the next few days busying himself with side work. He fulfills a few small contracts and turns them in for enough money to rent a room at a new inn. He needs a place to stay, despite Alistair’s offer of a house near the docks. He won’t let anyone _keep_ him—he didn’t even do that for Daylen.

The new inn is not as nice or as clean as the first. The bed is lumpy and full of straw, instead of batting. If he let someone fuck him on _that_ mattress, his knees would be skinned before either of them came. His mind paints a picture of Alistair behind him.

_Shit. Fuck. Stop it._

It’s been too long already—one night is an understandable mistake; maybe it’s even a viable option for pre-murder—but _twice_ is a blunder. Three times would be unforgivable.

And yet… when a raven arrives later that evening (the fourth day since their last encounter) he doesn’t refuse it out of hand. In fact, he reads it twice.

[Meet me by the docks. The red door with the brass knob. Tonight.]

It’s not closed with the royal seal, but it might as well be. Alistair doesn’t _understand_ subtle. It would be embarrassing if it wasn’t so endearing. _Fuck him_. Zevran’s not going.

 

And yet, he finds himself near the docks that night. _Not_ for Alistair, but he’s _there_ … for something else. He breathes in the sea air and remembers. This city used to look very different once.

When Daylen led them there the first time, there were peasants in the market and thieves in the streets. They made pacts with shady characters while ostensibly helping the city guard. It was a time of compromise—a time free from guilt. That is not to say that Zevran feels guilty now. He hasn't entertained the idea of guilt in a decade and a half… _except_ … there is one person in this city whose _head_ he can't seem to take.

A red door: it's right in front of him. A quarter turn of his wrist and he'll be inside. He doesn't even really know how he got here… on the wings of memory? Has he ever been down this street before? He doesn't remember this door specifically, but he's nostalgic anyway. Its worn edges and warped panels are like so many doors he's slipped behind—doors with Daylen. Doors behind which he didn't have to think.

Why is it so hard to go inside now? Just open the door and he won't have to think again. He knows Alistair's type by now: the reticent leader. That has implications for what Alistair can be _for him_. But does he need someone new to hurt him? Doesn't he do a good enough job on his own?

* * *

 

**15 Years Ago**

 

“Zev…” Daylen rolls his eyes and tisks. “Are you _crying_ again?” He bites his lip. Crying is his favorite.

Zevran scoffs, but he knows better than to say anything. It will only make it worse. The pain is already almost too much to bear. His hands are completely numb at this point—they’ve been tied over his head for far too long. The blood drained from them and relocated to his crotch an hour ago.

“Come now, Love,” says Daylen. “Just _say_ it and this will all be over.”

He _won’t_. Zevran might agree to this—this _ridiculous_ series of games—but he won’t agree to _that_. The minute he says those words all semblance of power is gone. So is his autonomy. He won’t do it.

“I’d rather die,” he says flatly.

“Ooh, feisty this evening…” laughs Daylen. There’s a sparkle in his eyes. It’s something between boyish charm and murderous villainy. That’s the _thing_ about him: **he’s both**. To look at him, you’d think he was a paragon of virtue: blonde hair, golden skin, big blue eyes. His shoulders are broad and his jaw square. He’s the picture of refined masculinity. But beneath all that pretence lies something else. It doesn’t come out often, but it’s there: lurking in the deeper recesses of his subconscious. Waiting to be unleashed with a slash across his wrist or a vial of blood. The circle taught him to hide it, but Zevran sees it anyway.

He sees it _now_ most of all. He sees it in how cruel he can be to the person he supposedly loves. But Zevran isn’t one to judge. He knows better.

Zevran tugs on the leather straps, pulling his torso up. He’s trying to take some of the pressure off, but he only succeeds in curling his spine into an unnatural position.

“Come on, Zevran—I know you want this to be over.” Daylen is still laughing. This time, electricity sparks against his palms. It’s a warning: this is all about to get _so_ much worse.

The last time electricity became involved in their lovemaking (if you can call it that) Zevran had burns on his ribcage for a week. The scariest part is that he _liked_ them. They were a badge of honor—a reminder of what he can survive. He can survive it this time too. He closes his eyes and waits.

The first arc sears into the left side of his chest. The surge contracts all his muscles at once and leaves him panting.

“Maker, that must hurt,” says Daylen. He smiles devilishly. “Say it.”

Zevran takes a steadying breath and closes his eyes just in time for the second shock.

 

 

* * *

 

**Presently**

 

He turns the knob without realizing he has done it. The brass is cool against his palm, but a wave of warmth hits him once the door is open. A fire is already blazing—candles are lit everywhere. _What is this?_ _A Tethras novel?_ He scoffs.

“Hi,” says Alistair.

 _Hi?_ _That's all he can muster? What an amateur._

Alistair rushes to him, arms all too quick to wrap around his waist. Zevran lets it happen, despite his better judgment.

He takes an inventory of the cottage while he’s trapped against Alistair’s chest. It’s tiny—just one room with two areas: one for sleeping and one for eating. There aren’t any other doors—only a small opening toward what, he assumes, is the kitchen. There are a couple windows, but Alistair had the wherewithal to close them. That’s why it’s so warm in here, undoubtedly.

“I’m glad you’re here,” says Alistair.

Zevran’s inclination is to laugh at that. The voice is his head screams at him to finish this, but he doesn’t move. The impetus comes out in an involuntary shiver.

“Are you _cold_?” asks Alistair. He has pulled back enough that he can look down into Zevran’s eyes, but he hasn’t let go of his waist. His fingers tug at the fabric of Zevran’s shirt.

Zevran shakes his head and steps back. “Why did you summon me?” he asks.

Alistair blushes. It’s not an _embarrassed_ shade of red like he would have worn a decade ago—just a light pink dusting across the apples of his cheeks.

“I think _summon_ is a bit strong…” he says finally.

Zevran smirks. _What is his game_?

“I didn’t know if you’d come, actually,” he says.

“That remains to be seen, doesn’t it?” quips Zevran.

Alistair smiles—it makes one of his dimples deeper than the other. He looks downright boyish… just like Daylen. It’s terrifying. Zevran has to stop this. In this situation, there’s only one way to do it.

He puts both hands flat on Alistair’s chest and pushes him into the wall. The way one of his buckles makes contact with Zevran’s side hurts—it hits the fresh stitches—but it’s almost a relief. It’s a good way not to feel the rest of this. If there is one thing Daylen taught him, it’s _that_.

Alistair’s mouth is hungry today. His lips open and close over Zevran’s jaw and his teeth connect with his neck.

Zevran makes quick work of his belts and buckles. He feels like it’s impossible to get Alistair out of his pants quickly enough. He needs to be _doing_ something to avoid this feeling. It’s an internal itch he can’t scratch—not so unlike the feeling when he couldn’t _kill_. _Why can’t he do that again_?

He drops to his knees while Alistair is still braced against the wall and tugs his pants down over his hips. It’s all one rough movement that results in Zevran’s knees smashing against the uneven hardwood planks.

Alistair runs his fingers through Zevran’s hair. It’s gentle. Zevran _hates_ it.

“Zev?” whimpers Alistair.

Zevran looks up. He’s annoyed that Alistair is talking, but he’s even _more_ annoyed at the nickname. No one has called him that since… well…

“You don’t need to rush… we have all night,” says Alistair.

Zevran stands up suddenly and straightens his shirt. “This was a mistake.” He turns toward the door.

“What?” Alistair wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him back. “Where are you going?”

Zevran can’t suppress a wince. Alistair’s fingertips are digging into his wound.

“What’s going on? Are you in _pain_?” asks Alistair.

Zevran wants to argue, but he’s bleeding through his shirt now.

“Let me see that,” says Alistair. He’s managed to get his pants back around his waist, if not fastened.

“I don’t need your help, Alistair,” groans Zevran.

Alistair rolls his eyes and pushes Zevran to sit on the edge of the bed. He rips his shirt up and off with such gusto that Zevran finds himself moderately surprised.

“What the hell happened?” asks Alistair.

“Nothing.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Right… this is always what _‘nothing’_ looks like.” He smirks infuriatingly. “I have elfroot—hold on.”

“Don’t waste healing potions on this,” argues Zevran. He doesn’t try _hard_ , though. His voice barely reaches into the kitchen where Alistair is making a racket. His side really _does_ hurt and he’s sick of enduring it. The pain isn’t strong enough to dull his emotions, but it’s too strong to really ignore.

Alistair appears with two vials of green liquid. “Okay, let me see that.”

Zevran turns, begrudgingly, so that his wound is in the light.

“You stitched this yourself, didn’t you?” asks Alistair.

Zevran nods.

“You did a terrible job.” Alistair smiles, although it looks forced. He seems _concerned_ , more than anything, which makes Zevran want to leave the room. Give him _any_ emotion, but pity.

Alistair runs his fingertips across the uneven skin. It’s featherlight, but it still hurts. “We’re going to have to cut these out first,” he says gently. “Do you have a really small knife with you?”

Zevran nods. What kind of an assassin would he be without an array? Of course, he can’t seem to _use_ any of them—on Alistair—but that’s a separate issue.

“Where?” asks Alistair.

Zevran starts to stand, but Alistair puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t—I’ll get it.”

Zevran rolls his eyes. “In my pack—interior pocket.”

Alistair goes digging around and eventually produces the smallest knife in Zevran’s collection.

“Be careful with that,” warns Zevran. “It’s extremely sharp.”

Alistair swallows audibly on his way back to the bed. “Lie back.”

Zevran does it—like he does _so many_ things he’s told to do.

Alistair sits next to him and leans over. His face is only three inches from the ruined skin. “Are you ready?”

Zevran nods. When Alistair breaks the first stitch, Zevran feels it internally—abdominal wounds are like that: deep, aching, pain that travels unpredictably. He knows he’s bleeding before he even looks.

“Are you okay?” asks Alistair.

“Just get it over with,” barks Zevran.

Alistair nods. “Luckily, you’re terrible at this, so you only put the bare minimum number of stitches in…”

Zevran laughs, despite the pain. It helps, actually—this _stupid_ humor.

“One more,” says Alistair.

Zevran looks—blood trickles down his side toward the sheets.

Alistair sighs—relieved that he’s done, no doubt. “Here. Drink one of these potions and then we’ll see if you need the other one.”

Zevran sits up and nods. He’s losing an alarming amount of blood, actually. He should have healed better by now. He suspected the blade was poisoned, but now he’s _sure_.

Alistair smiles encouragingly. “That’s it.”

As soon as Zevran swallows the first swig, he starts to feel better. His entire body thrums with magic. It’s not so unlike being with Daylen.

  

* * *

 

**15 Years Ago**

 

“Come here,” says Daylen. He opens his arms toward Zevran like he’s about to hug a petulant child.

Zevran hesitates. It feels _wrong_ to approach him after this… his entire body is wracked with pain and lingering electricity. He even feels it _inside_.

“Come. Here,” repeats Daylen.

Zevan looks down at the floor and shuffles over. When his head falls into the hollow of Daylen’s chest, he hears the whispering that means the pain is about to stop.

It’s not a normal healing spell—it’s something that restores life force, though. In fact, whenever Daylen does it, Zevran feels _better_ than average for the next day or two. He wonders about the cost, but not enough to defy him—Daylen is his _whole world_.

“There.” Daylen pushes the sweaty hair off Zevran’s face and kisses the top of his head. It’s in times like these that Zevran loves him… possibly because it’s then that Daylen loves him too—when he’s soft and yielding and _ruined_.

They whisper together gently… but he still won’t say _it_ —the one thing that Daylen wants to hear. It’s the only power he has left.

 

 

* * *

 

**Presently**

 

“See? All better,” says Alistair. He rubs his fingers across the new skin.

“Thank you,” says Zevran.

“Now… can I _please_ take the rest of your clothes off?” laughs Alistair.

He’s smirking and smiling and doing everything _wrong_ in Zevran’s estimation—completely and utterly _opposite_ from how people are supposed to behave about sex. As a result, Zevran isn’t even remotely hard when Alistair slides his pants off.

“Oh…” says Alistair.

Zevran tries to think of something that will fix this, but he can’t, so he reaches for Alistair’s pants. He realizes he’s bracing for fury—or a spark of electricity—that isn’t coming.

Alistair shakes his head and pushes Zevran’s hands away.

_Confusing._

“May I?” asks Alistair. He gets off the bed to kneel between Zevran’s thighs and licks his lips.

Zevran thinks he might be even _less_ ready than he was before, so he wonders what Alistair’s plan is. He rolls his eyes like all of this is a _chore_ , but shrugs assent.

Alistair smiles and sucks Zevran into his mouth. Since he’s flaccid, it isn’t hard to take the whole thing. Although Zevran doesn’t want to admit it, it feels marvelous. Before he realizes it, he’s grown to fill the space between Alistair’s lips.

“Perfect,” whispers Alistair.

Zevran is a bit confused. He doesn’t really _understand_ people being nice to him.

“Perfect for what?” purrs Zevran. Despite the way he feels, he isn’t going to drop this facade. They’re here to have sex, aren’t they? Or was it something else? _Alistair’s untimely demise, perhaps?_

...but that doesn’t happen… _again_. 

 

* * *

 

**Alistair**

Alistair blinks into sunlight and tries to figure out where he is. Nothing about the surroundings is familiar. It isn’t until he hears breathing that he remembers: he’s with Zevran.

“Good morning,” he whispers.

He rolls onto his side so they’re face to face. Zevran’s eyes are still closed. He looks utterly asleep, but Alistair wonders if it’s an act—it would be easy enough to fake sleeping for a Crow. Is this one of their trademarks?

He chances wrapping his hand around Zevran’s waist. It’s soft and gentle. The first two times they were together—it was rough. Last night was something else. There was a moment—when Zevran finally let go; when he fell apart—Alistair could _swear_ he was someone else.

This morning, though, he is _not_ in such a mood. When he opens his eyes, it happens sharply—with a little hitch and retraction.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

Alistair smiles lopsidedly. “I was about to kiss you. Do you object?” He buries his mouth in the skin of Zevran’s neck.

Zevran makes a sound like he _might_ , but it doesn’t materialize into anything.

Alistair drags a hand down Zevran’s side and hooks his fingers over his hip.

Zevran gently grinds against Alistair’s thigh.

It’s a fight, but Alistair forces himself to back up. “I need to go.”

Zevran squints. He looks surprised for a fraction of a second, but it’s gone before Alistair even realizes what it is.

“...but I want to see you again,” adds Alistair.

Zevran starts to sit up, but Alistair grabs him. His fingertips fit into the grooves between his ribs.

“ _Please_.”

Zevran shrugs, like he’s considering the weather. “I _suppose_.”

They stare at each other. It feels like some kind of competition; Alistair doesn't know how to win.

“One thing before you go. What were you doing in that alley?” asks Zevran suddenly.

“Same as _you_ , I think…” says Alistair.

“I doubt that.” Zevran rests his head against a folded arm. “You seemed rather determined.”

“Determined to what?”

“...to get someone to suck your dick.” Zevran laughs. He's actually smiling—a _real_ smile, Alistair thinks.

“It's not really about that,” answers Alistair. He isn't sure if volunteering that kind of information is a good idea, but they're lying here in bed on the morning after their _third_ night together.

Zevran squints. “What _is_ it about, then?”

“Control,” says Alistair.

Zevran's eyes widen.

_Is that what **fear** looks like on his face?_

“...more accurately, being _out_ of control,” amends Alistair. He doesn’t know why Zevran’s making that expression, but he feels like a predator again.

“You seemed rather _authoritative_ to me,” says Zevran.

“I’m sorry,” says Alistair.

Zevran squints. “Don’t be sorry.”

“I don’t know how _not_ to be—I feel like you saw me at my worst.”

“If _that’s_ your worst, you don’t have to worry about me. I’m a survivor.”

“What does _that_ mean?” asks Alistair.

Zevran sits up again—this time Alistair doesn’t pull him back.

“Nothing. You have to go… and so do I,” says Zevran. His voice is thick with finality—Alistair knows he can’t argue.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely comments I've gotten on this story--both here and privately. You're making me _blush_.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair and Zevran meet twice more. The second time, the conversation turns serious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The memory this time is not as controversial as the others have been. It's more important to the plot, though. :)

* * *

**Alistair**

Alistair snaps his hips forward strongly enough that Zevran yells. It’s loud; back in the inn it would have been _too_ loud, but here in the little cottage it’s safe. After last time, Alistair paid to have use of the adjacent cottages too—to avoid witnesses. He didn’t even know if Zevran would see him again at that point, but he did it—on hope alone.

“Fuck you,” says Zevran. He’s smirking over his shoulder.

“No… I think you have it backwards,” laughs Alistair. “Although I’m amenable to suggestions.”

Zevran laughs. “Just…” he drops his head back down and manages to get his hand out from under his shoulders. Alistair watches it trail down his abdomen. “Just come, you asshole.”

Alistair laughs again, but he doesn’t wait another second. He grabs Zevran’s hips and thrusts—hard.

Zevran whimpers and pumps his hand in time.

“I’m about to…” stutters Alistair. His voice is broken and hoarse.

Alistair feels the orgasm from his gut to his toes. For a second, he thinks he isn’t going to be able to keep himself up, but he manages it. His hands massage the edges of Zevran’s hips of their own volition in the aftershocks.

Zevran comes all over the sheets a few seconds later. Transiently, Alistair feels bad. He can’t explain why, but it’s a tug in his guts that he can’t ignore. It wasn’t there the first time they had sex, but it’s been there every time since… and it’s getting stronger.

“I’ll see you again soon, I expect?” asks Zevran. He walks to the basin and cleans himself so expeditiously, it feels like abandonment.

“I suppose,” says Alistair. He hasn’t attempted to stand up yet. He wipes a corner of the ruined sheets across his too-sensitive dick.

Zevran nods and turns away to put on his pants.

“When?” asks Alistair.

“I don’t know.” Zevran doesn’t even turn around.

“Maybe we should just skip it,” Alistair says, suddenly. It’s a test, really—a stupid one, since he expects Zevran to fail it instantly.

Zevran turns. Their eyes meet. Alistair almost lets himself hope.

“If that’s what you’d prefer…” says Zevran. His expression doesn't give anything away. It’s confusing and infuriating.

Alistair stands. “Fine.”

Zevran squints. Again, Alistair hopes.

...but then Zevran leaves, without another word.

 

* * *

 

A few days later, Alistair still doesn’t know what he hoped _for_ , exactly. It isn’t until he’s sitting in a meeting with some foreign dignitaries that he realizes he _misses_ Zevran. It’s terrible because Zevran isn’t _his_ in even the loosest definition of the concept.

“Your Majesty,” a landowner clears her throat. “What say you?”

He blinks. He wasn’t listening.

“Are you going to approve our petition or not?” she adds.

Alistair looks at one of his aides, who subtly shakes his head.

“Not at this stage,” says Alistair. “If you’d like to submit supporting documentation, I may reconsider.”

The aide nods.

_Phew._

“That’s it for today,” Alistair says, rising.

Everyone disperses.

By nightfall, he finds himself in his room. Only, as soon as he closes the door, he realizes he isn’t alone. A gentle swish of the curtains and a presence—that’s all he has to go on. The hair on the back of his neck bristles.

“Shhh,” says Zevran. He steps out from the shadows, a finger pressed to his lips.

“What are you doing here?” asks Alistair.

Zevran smiles. “I don’t think you meant what you said.”

Alistair has never been so happy to be doubted, but he tries to play it cool. He keeps his face neutral and steps forward nonchalantly. “Which part?”

Zevran rolls his eyes. “You intimated that you’d rather not fuck again. That seems _improbable_.”

Alistair smirks. “You have an _awfully_ high opinion of yourself.”

“That isn’t opinion. It’s fact.”

They both laugh. It’s odd because they aren’t _friends_. They’re more like strangers who occasionally have sex… there isn’t a name for what they are to each other.

It doesn’t stop them from having sex, though—title or no, they know how to do _that_. Alistair thinks they’re getting better at it all the time, actually. The only hard part is _after_.

 

 

* * *

 

**Zevran**

Zevran finds himself staring at the ceiling of Alistair’s chambers.  He still doesn’t know what _possessed_ him to come here. He was doing well—managing to avoid Alistair for a few days after that last fight.

 _Well_ … _‘fight’_ might be a little strong. But the fact remains, Alistair wanted (wants?) something from him that he isn’t prepared to give.

As if on cue, Alistair asks, “Are you leaving?”

Zevran sighs.

“Because you don’t have to,” Alistair adds. He wraps his arm across Zevran’s chest and pulls him in tight.

 

* * *

 

**15 Years Ago**

 

In the moments after Daylen comes, he’s almost sweet. It’s a rapidly closing window during which Zevran sees the _true_ Daylen—at least he thinks he does. _This_ Daylen is kind and gentle and _yielding_. He lets Zevran hold him and run his fingers through his hair.

It’s blonder than Zevran’s actually—like he’s been in the Antivan sun all summer, even though Ferelden is a miserable, dark country. More than that, Daylen lived in a circle until this year. Certainly, he wasn’t allowed to go outside and sunbathe. No—his days were spent hiding in corners, mixing potions, and cutting his own wrists.

Their pasts are not so different, actually. They were both prisoners, in a way. Both bound to act as they were told—both limited. But they’ve escaped, it seems. Because here they are, sleeping in a warm bed, without anyone to tell them what to do or where to go. For the first time, they’re—ostensibly—free.

“I’m going to die,” announces Daylen suddenly.

Zevran stops breathing.

Daylen turns to look up into his eyes. “Did you hear me?”

“What are you talking about?” asks Zevran.

“A warden is going to die—to end this,” he says. His affect is _absolutely_ flat. “And it’s going to be me.”

“What?” Zevran’s pulse quickens.

“One of us has to kill the archdemon,” he reiterates. “And Alistair can’t do it.”

“Why not?”

He rolls his eyes like Zevran is an idiot.

“Tell me,” says Zevran.

Daylen’s eyes narrow.

“Because you _want_ him,” threatens Zevran. It's a reflex, really—a tiny glimpse into the pervasive inadequacy and fear that this relationship instills in him.

“Stop it,” says Daylen.

“ _You’re_ the one who has said it,” Zevran argues. “Everyone knows you want to fuck him. I’m just your goddamn consolation prize.”

He doesn’t even know _why_ he’s saying this. What he _really_ wants is to hold Daylen in his arms and force him not to go. He would beg or plead. He'd finally say those words—the ones Daylen wants to hear. He would do anything for Daylen because of how he feels. He—he _loves_ him.

“Shut up,” says Daylen. “I didn’t tell you this so you’d show me how insecure you are.”

Zevran feels his face get hot.

“It’s pathetic,” adds Daylen. He stays absolutely silent until Zevran melts into a subservient mess of pleads and whimpers.

“Daylen—please…” Zevran says. He’s kicking himself for saying anything. He should know better than to argue. “Please don’t go.”

“I need to be alone.” Daylen pushes Zevran away—hard. His head connects with the headboard; stars erupt in his vision.

“I’m sorry,” stammers Zevran.

Daylen shakes his head and stands. “We’re done.” He leaves the room without looking back.

It’s always painful with him, but never as painful as _this_. He’d rather Daylen hit him than leave.

 

* * *

 

**Presently**

 

“Before the end… did you _know_ Daylen made that deal with Morrigan?” asks Zevran.

Alistair’s eyes widen, “What?”

“When he left us to hold the gates while he went off with the others… did you _know_ he was going to come back in one place?”

Alistair doesn't say anything at first. His eyes dart all around the room—the only place he won't look is back at Zevran.

“Well?”

“I knew,” Alistair whispers.

Zevran sits up. He looks for this clothes. Unfortunately, they're scattered everywhere.

“Please—wait,” says Alistair.

The repetition strikes Zevran. Here he is, trying to walk away from someone who _cares_. Daylen might be proud _._

“Zevran… stop,” Alistair pleads. “Let me explain.”

Zevran grinds his teeth. While he was grappling with the loss of the only person he ever cared about, Alistair and Daylen both knew they were going to walk away unscathed.

“Daylen told me that night.” Alistair points off to the left, remembering. “Morrigan was in that room over there.”

Zevran pulls his pants on and ties them. He’s not convinced that this story is going to make him want to stay. Even more than that, he wants to give the _impression_ that he’s unfazed.

“And I told him right away that it was a compromise _I’d_ be willing to make—he didn’t have to be the one... in case it didn’t work,” says Alistair.

That makes Zevran look up.

“..but he wouldn’t hear it—he said that Ferelden needed me…” Alistair wraps his arms around himself and rubs—as if the room just got cold. “When he left us at the gates—I knew why. He didn’t have an ounce of fear in him.”

Zevran nods.

“I knew you didn’t know, though. I knew that you thought you were saying goodbye—I can’t imagine what that must have felt like." Alistair pauses. “I’m so sorry that I didn’t tell you; I should have.” He leans in and rests his lips against Zevran’s forehead. It's so gentle; Zevran wants to _stab_ him.

“Why should you have?”

“Because it would have been decent. It would have been _right_.”

Zevran rolls his eyes.

“I couldn’t even look at him when he came back,” adds Alistair. “He had this expression like he’d just won a _game_ and not made a deal that might doom all of us.” He scoffs. “And when I saw Morrigan… years later… well… I said terrible things—I was bitter and raw and angry.” He rubs a hand across his face. “But I’ve come to realize he was right—I mean… we both _lived_ , didn’t we?”

They sigh, almost in tandem.

“I guess… I’m still surprised he left. I thought he was going to stay in Amaranthine… at least for a while,” says Alistair.

He knows that addition is completely innocent, but it makes something snap in Zevran’s chest. That is the _exact_ thing he has objected to for fifteen years. When the Blight was over and Daylen was safe, he thought they would be _together_. He still doesn’t know why—it’s not something he ever wanted before or after, but he thought Daylen _loved_ him—in his own fucked up way.

“I thought he would too—or…” Zevran almost blurts that he thought Daylen would go somewhere _with him_ , but he manages to suppress it.

“I thought you would be together too,” says Alistair. He swallows the words and makes a face like they’re sharp. “I know how hurt you were when he left.”

“How?” snaps Zevran.

“I saw you—that morning,” admits Alistair. His eyes are wide and liquid.

“What morning?”

Alistair sips air. “The morning a herald arrived to announce Daylen’s departure ‘ _into territories unknown_ ,’ I saw you. You were standing in the wings of the great hall—I looked right at your face.”

“ _Why_?”

Alistair squints incredulously, “Because I knew it would hurt you—how could I _not_ look?”

Zevran stands up, ready to leave again. He doesn’t have a plan for where to go—he just wants to get out of this room.

“Please—don’t go.”

“I have to leave.”

“No you don’t,” argues Alistair. “Come back to bed.” He doesn’t say please. He isn’t _asking_ , but his tone implies that Zevran has a choice—a luxury he was never awarded before. That’s what convinces him to _stay_.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a favorite sentence in this chapter: "I knew it would hurt you--how could I not look?" I love that sentiment; I feel it in my guts. 
> 
> I guess I'm sappy today.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After some questionable choices, Zevran realizes that he isn't as progressive or evolved as he thought he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some more sex... that's basically a given in this story... no memories to worry about in this one.

* * *

**Zevran**

* * *

 

Zevran’s brain feels full of cotton. His body is one place, but his mind is still in those tents—still in that Blight. One thing’s for sure: he should _never_ have come here.

It’s that exact thought that leads him out of bed in the middle of the night. It takes Alistair _forever_ to fall asleep and he’s almost crushed to death by the weight of his body, but he waits until he’s absolutely sure he’s asleep before he sneaks out.

Outside, the streets are deserted. Almost every window is shuttered and dark. The only people around are those with something to hide or something to run from, which is perfect for what Zevran needs.

He wanders down the street until he finds a dive with its lantern still lit. There are only a few patrons inside, but the bar is still serving.

He motions to the bartender to give him something and slides a few coins across the bar without speaking. He’s there to find someone, not to get drunk. The cup in front of him is just a prop.

In some ways, this isn’t so different from the night he met Alistair. He was there looking for distraction in the form of emotional—or physical—punishment. He debates with himself about whether or not he found it. Alistair isn’t one to hurt him, but being with him is certainly _painful_. It’s raw and exposed and _real_ … and _so_ connected to the past.

He shudders and looks back into his drink. He needs to _stop_. He shakes his head and refocuses—there must be someone here… someone who can be what he needs.

It doesn’t take too long for someone to come along. She’s short and slender with jet black hair and equally dark eyes. She’s wearing a hood and trying to blend in, but Zevran can tell that she’s elven anyway. When she sits, he moves his seat to be next to her.

“Hello,” he says.

She looks a little surprised to see him sitting so close.

“What brings you here?” he asks.

She shrugs. “Same as you, I’d imagine.”

He smirks, wondering if that can possibly be true.

“Buy me a drink,” she says. It’s not a request and he’s amenable to such things, so he does it straight away.

 

* * *

 

It isn’t the first order she gives that night. Before he knows how, he finds himself tied to a chair in one of the inn’s back rooms. He’s completely naked, trying not to curse as he’s denied release over and over.

“Fuck,” he whispers. It feels involuntary, actually. He’s either going to swear or come, and coming isn’t allowed.

She laughs. She’s still completely dressed. He wants to rip the clothes off her.

“Let me see you,” he says.

She smiles coyly and kneels between his thighs.

Zevran gasps. He imagines the feeling of her lips on his cock and almost comes from ideation alone.

“Have you had enough?” she asks. She’s close enough that her breath tickles him with each word.

He bites his bottom lip. He isn’t sure what he’s supposed to say. Clearly, the game is to try to hold out, but he’s imagining sinking into her and what her skin will taste like already. His cock twitches in his lap—still ignored.

“Do you want to fuck me?” she asks.

He gasps. It’s what he’s been wanting for an hour. He thinks it’s the only thing that has a chance of fixing him—clearing his head.

She laughs again, but she doesn’t tease. She rucks up her skirts and straddles his lap. He can’t see where they’re joined, but he knows how wet she is the second she touches him. His cock slides against her in the most deliciously sinful way.

He realizes then that it has been _ages_ since he fucked a woman. Not on purpose—it just _happened_. And… lately… he’s _only_ been fucking Alistair. It’s ridiculous—why would he do that to himself?

Well, he’s _done_. As of right now, he’s not going to see Alistair again unless he intends to finish that damned contract...which, even now, seems unpalatable.

In the midst of all this mental chatter, he ignored the first few thrusts and he finds himself buried deep inside her. His arms are still tied to the chair behind him, but he wishes he could rip her shirt open to suck her tits and bite her neck. He settles for nuzzling into the fabric and pulling at it with his teeth.

“Don’t rush,” she says suddenly. “We have _time_.”

 _Oh no_.

It’s so like something Alistair said just a few days ago—before he tended his wounds and nursed him back to health. Before he demonstrated that he's trustworthy and gentle and _kind._

 _Shit_.

He feels it happening before he even realizes what it is—some kind of sickness in his gut that’s accompanied by buzzing in his ears and spots in his vision.

 

* * *

 

Embarrassed and desperate for air, he manages to get free of the chair, find his clothes, and amble out into the street. It all happens in a motifying haze.

It’s almost dawn by the time he emerges—belt unbuckled and hair mussed. He’s a disgrace...and he feels worse than ever.

It’s _this_ realization that leads him back to the palace. It’s stupid, but he does it anyway—as if his feet don’t have a choice. He has an idea—a stupid one—that if he can make it back before Alistair wakes up, maybe he won’t notice he was gone.

He operates under this ridiculous pretence all the way up the battlements and across the eaves. He even sort of believes it as he slips into Alistair’s room through the window, like a shadow. In fact, he still believes it until he _sees_ …

The room is utterly untouched—exactly as he left it, save for one thing: _Alistair is gone_. Not left to fetch a glass of water or a midnight snack, but _gone_ —in a final sense… To Zevran, it’s instantly clear he was _taken—_ in a way that only Crows can take someone.

Sweat beads against the inside of Zevran’s collar. He feels bile in his throat, realizing that it’s the third time he’s been sweaty tonight… the mixture sickens him. Just a few hours ago, he had a _choice_ —he could have stayed. He could have endured it—all that ridiculous kindness—and this wouldn’t have happened.

He laughs—sudden and loud, in the middle of a deserted bedroom that isn’t his own.

In all this time, he never really learned to be strong. He learned to ignore some things—physical pain, certainly—but he never learned to sit with the uncomfortable quiet that lives in his own mind. He never learned to endure the _internal_ pain—he just snuffs it out with endless self-flagellation.

He flops backward across the bed. It’s mad because someone could come in at any second, but he’s losing it. He got involved with Alistair—in what capacity, he still isn’t sure—and he’s managed to infect him with his particular brand of misery. And Alistair is _good_ …

“Zevran!” he yells aloud. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

 

* * *

 

He’s not sure how long he lies there. He lets the sun rise outside the window and traces the cracks in the ceiling before he manages to sit up. When he does, he’s more methodical. He scans the corners of the room for shreds of evidence. The fact that none appears is even more proof that the Crows are behind this. _Never leave a trail._

He’s about to give up when he notices a scrap of cloth at the corner of the bed. He would have missed it if he’d left he room earlier, but the sun’s angle is perfectly illuminating it now. It’s a cloth he knows—a code of arms for a particular Antivan family. He thanks the stars and moon for giving Alistair a quick mind—he would have known that would be a clue.

That means Alistair _wants_ to be found. That means he wants _Zevran_ to find him.

 _He has a destination_.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Alistair being kidnapped is one of my favorite things... When Earlgreyer and I wrote our other Zevistair thing, I really came around to the idea that Alistair should be saved. And this Zevran needs to do some saving... for mental health reasons.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair lands in Antiva.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only warning for this chapter is a description of Alistair's abduction, which is not super graphic, but a little scary.

* * *

**Alistair**

A scream rings out. It takes Alistair a minute to realize _he’s_ the one making that sound. The whole room swirls in front of him. In an instant, he finds himself flung against the hardwood planks of his bedroom floor. His face scratches against a nail that needs to be banged back in after winter warped the boards. A trickle of blood slides down his cheek and into his mouth.

And suddenly, the lights go out. The bag over his head not only obscures his vision, but makes him panic. It’s thick—he wonders if he can still breathe.

Something connects with his gut, knocking the wind out of him. He couldn’t scream again if he wanted to. He doesn't realize he's losing consciousness until he's on the brink of it. The shushing in his ears is the final sign.

...everything goes black. And even in this darkened internal prison, he wonders: _Where is Zevran?_

 

* * *

 

He doesn't know how long passes after that. It could be hours or days, but he knows he's somewhere different. The familiar scent of lilac and sandalwood disappear almost instantly—as soon as he's outside the castle walls, he imagines. And soon, the air gets warm. He's not _present_ for much of it, but he feels the oppressive humidity as his clothes cling to him in an uncomfortable way. Every time he wakes, he knows he's farther away from home.

It isn't until someone pours water on his head that he really wakes up. The cloth soaks through and he's sure he'll drown. It's impossible to breathe. He gurgles and swears incoherently, wondering how many seconds are left until he dies.

He makes a mental list of all the people he loves and admires. His uncles, Leliana, Mrs. Stewart who always makes him cheese pies… and… Zevran?

It's unconventional, but Zevran is the person he has seen in his mind every day for the last fortnight. Realizing that he probably isn't going to see him again hurts more than he expected. In fact, it manages to take over almost his entire awareness. For a few seconds, he forgets that he's drowning and thinks the misery itself might be killing him.

It isn't until the bag is ripped off of his head that he remembers—he's been abducted.

He blinks. It's so bright here—the contrast makes it almost impossible to see the faces of his assailants. They're all leaning over him in a circle.

“Where am I?” he tries to say. It comes out garbled and precipitates a cough. Water bubbles out the side of his mouth. He curls onto his side shudders. In some ways, the bag was preferable.

Then, he sees someone he remembers. Flaxen hair and golden skin—tendrils across his face. It's either Zevran, or he's finally losing his shit. The latter seems more probable.

“Who brought him in?” asks Zevran.

_Not a mirage after all?_

Someone mumbles and gestures. Alistair can't hear the words, but the tone is a lot like that other conversation Zevran had a few weeks earlier—the one outside the door.

“Get him up,” barks Zevran.

Two men grab Alistair by the arms and hoist him up. He hangs there, feet refusing to work. His head flops down unceremoniously.

“Your Majesty…” Zevran says through a smirk. “How nice of you to join us. Welcome to Antiva.”

 

 

* * *

 

**Zevran**

In Zevran’s estimation, this _isn’t_ the worst case scenario. Since the moment he left Alistair’s bedroom, he has lived in a constant state of panic. He imagined the worst: Alistair dead in some unnamed grave or burned to hide the evidence. It was all he could do to get on a ship and hope he made it there ahead of him.

As it turns out, he has significantly more friends with pirate ships than he remembered. He finds crossing the sea easier than he expects and manages to arrive in Antiva and take partial credit for the capture before Alistair even makes landfall.

He didn't expect him to look this _bad_ , though. Zevran doesn't wince—he doesn't let any part of his body or face show it—but he _hates_ what Alistair looks like. Some stupid part of his brain insists he should wrap Alistair in his arms and force-feed him healing potions until he can be upright enough to keep hating him. Because right now, all he can do is love him.

Not in a _romantic_ sense, mind you—not that Zevran even believes in that anymore—but in the sense that they've been intimate and now he's a breath away from _dead_. That means something… doesn't it?

“Put him in a cell and wait for instructions,” says Zevran. His voice comes out like a joke—like he _loves_ the idea of Alistair rotting in a dungeon, even though he hates it.

 

* * *

 

It takes him all day to sneak away to the dungeons. There are too many highly-trained people watching him. Although he’s mostly smoothed it over, there are still some who wonder (rightly) why he didn’t kill Alistair before this second contract was issued. Some assume he’s losing his touch—in his old age. _He shivers—age is a sore subject: he’ll be 42 on his next nameday_. Others might guess something closer to the truth—that there’s something _wrong_ with him that makes killing Alistair less palatable than it ought to be.

Nevertheless, he finds himself silently traversing the stairs that lead down into the dungeons as soon as the sun has set. He had the wherewithal to send him to solitary—at least no one will overhear what he has to say...not that he knows what that _is_.

“Who’s there?” croaks Alistair.

Now that Zevran is this deep into the earth, he realizes he should have brought a lantern.

“Is someone there?” asks Alistair again. “I told your compatriots I needed water half a day ago… they seem to have gotten lost somewhere…”

Luckily, Zevran _did_ remember water. He has some in a flask around his waist. He pulls it out in the dark and approaches the cell bars.

“Here,” he whispers.

Alistair stands up and rushes to the bars. “Zevran?”

“Shh.”

“Maker,” he breathes. “I didn’t know if I’d see you again.”

Zevran has a highly developed internal version of this conversation filled with endearments and kisses and tears, but he doesn’t let one iota out.

“Here, take this.” He hands Alistair the flask through the bars. In order to do it in the dark, he has to feel for Alistair. When their hands touch, it takes effort not to hold on.

“Thank you,” mumbles Alistair.

Zevran’s eyes are starting to adjust. He still can’t see much, but he can pick out a few features of Alistair’s face—he looks even worse than he did earlier.

“Are you all right?” asks Zevran.

Alistair almost laughs. “I’m in a cell... in Antiva…”

Zevran smiles, although there’s nothing funny about this situation.

“...but I’m okay,” adds Alistair. “Are you here to get me out?”

Zevran wishes he didn’t ask that.

“I can’t.”

“What?” breathes Alistair. This time, it’s he who reaches. He puts his hand through the bars and grabs for Zevran’s chest. It’s so desperate, Zevran doubts his resolve.

“Not _yet_ , anyway,” amends Zevran. He lets his fingers intertwine with Alistair’s. _He's weak_ —there isn't any other excuse.

“I missed you,” says Alistair. He sounds like he means it, too.

“Did you?” asks Zevran. He's playing coy because he doesn't know how else to _handle_ people genuinely wanting him around.

“Of course. I think you were the only thing keeping me alive…” admits Alistair. “I've been dreaming of you every second since they took me.”

A pit forms in Zevran’s stomach.

“Speaking of which, what day is it? How long have I been here?”

“They took you two weeks ago,” answers Zevran. “I tried to stop them, but I—”

“Don't worry,” interrupts Alistair. “I don't blame you… you can't be with me every second.”

Zevran winces. He vows to never tell him what he was doing _instead_.

“Come here,” says Alistair suddenly. He leans his face against the bars.

Zevran doesn't move.

“Please…” Alistair pulls on one of the buckles of Zevran's armor. It isn't _rough_ , though. He's begging.

Zevran acquiesces.

“I can't believe you came for me,” whispers Alistair. He works his hand to the back of Zevran's neck and pulls him in until their lips touch. To call it a kiss seems inadequate. It's more like they’re melting into each other—as if every ounce of tenderness in the world is wrapped into that two inches of soft skin.

...for the first time in his life, Zevran _doesn't_ hate it.

Alistair’s tongue finds its way inside Zevran's mouth and his fingers tangle in Zevran's hair. It's stunted because of the iron between them, but Zevran's body reacts. He finds himself pressed flat against the bars.

“I'm going to get you out of here,” says Zevran.

Alistair licks his lips. “I know you are.”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love the next chapter most of all. i can't wait.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair feels his mortality. Zevran makes plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated E... sex, blood, and imprisonment-related-beatings. No scary memories to handle.

* * *

**Alistair**

 

Alistair spends the next day alternatively sleeping and looking for signs of Zevran. He knows it’s too soon for a full-scale rescue, but he _hopes_ —he dreams that maybe Zevran will come back to see him. If not for a conjugal visit, at least to talk. He’d love to hear his voice.

But Zevran doesn’t come. No one does, in fact. Alistair is _utterly_ alone for from sunup to sundown on his second full day in captivity. He isn’t even left with food, although he has some of the water Zevran gave him the night before. He wonders if he’s meant to die down here.

He has nearly given up hope when he hears a rustling sound in the far end of the prison—near the stairs. It’s the same kind of sound Zevran made yesterday: small enough to be a mouse, but insistent enough to ignite an ember of hope in Alistair’s chest. It’s dark again, of course, so he can’t see the approaching person, even when he’s within ten feet. There is one tiny window in Alistair’s cell, but it must be overcast, because not even moonlight shines in.

“Alistair?” says the voice.

Alistair stands and walks toward the bars. His heart is already in his throat. He’d know that voice anywhere.

“How are you?” asks Zevran.

“I’m okay—maybe a little better than yesterday. I’m managing.”

Zevran puts his hand through the bars to touch the side of his face. Alistair curls into the palm like a cat.

“Sit with me… for a while,” says Alistair.

Zevran nods. At this distance, Alistair can finally see his features. He looks _worried_. It’s the scariest expression he’s seen Zevran don to date.

They slide down the bars together. Their knees bump in between.

“Alistair?” says Zevran.

“Hmm?”

“When I come for you—we’ll need to be quick.”

“I understand,” swallows Alistair. He feels like he’s being strangled by invisible hands. _Seeing_ Zevran seems to hurt more than _not_ seeing him. “Can I ask you something?”

Zevran nods.

“Where were you?” he asks. “When they took me…”

Zevran reaches his hand through the bars and rubs it against Alistair’s leg.

“I went out,” he says.

_Out?_

“I couldn’t sleep… so I went out,” he adds. “...and I’m sorry I did.”

Alistair shakes his head. “You don’t need to be sorry—they might have _killed_ you.”

Zevran almost laughs. “They would _not_ have killed me.”

Alistair smiles, despite the gravity of the situation. “Awfully sure of yourself…”

Zevran leans closer and tips his chin through the bars. Alistair meets him. His lips taste like wine. Even the implication of food makes Alistair’s stomach rumble.

“Are you starving?” asks Zevran, as if he’s reading Alistair’s mind.

Alistair nods.

“I brought you a few things.” He produces a small handkerchief of items from inside his coat.

Alistair smiles. “Not yet… come here.”

He reaches through the bars and pulls Zevran closer. When they’re chest to chest, despite the iron between them, he starts to undo the buckles of Zevran’s pants. As soon as he can, he reaches inside and grips him. It’s the craziest thing he could do—fueled by desperation and the belief that this might _actually_ be the last time he sees him. His death is as likely as his continued existence.

Oddly, Zevran is already half-hard. He isn’t surprised that Zevran can manage to have an erection in a dungeon; he’s surprised that Zevran can have one _for him_.

“I want you,” he pants. “Stand up.”

Zevran obeys. As he does, Alistair reaches through and tugs his pants down over his hips. His cock lolls out into the air, thick and heavy.

“Come here. I don’t care that we’re in this fucking prison cell,” says Alistair. Honestly, he barely knows what he’s saying—it doesn’t even sound like his voice. This whole experience has devolved him into a sack of base instincts and hormones.

Zevran grabs onto the bars for support and leans.

The position Alistair has to assume is absurd. It’s impossible to get enough of Zevran in his mouth without banging into the bars again and again, but that’s what he does. Before he’s even managed to get Zevran close, he knows his cheekbones are bruised.

Zevran gasps and thrusts forward—his hips connecting painfully with the bars.

Alistair doesn’t know how many more thrusts it takes, but it isn’t many. Before he knows it, his mouth is full and tributaries are dripping down his neck toward his ruined shirt.

Zevran drops to his knees without even pulling his pants back up. He tips his chin and grabs for Alistair. “Kiss me.”

So Alistair does—he kisses Zevran like his _life_ depends on it, which, right now, it _might_.

“I need you,” whispers Alistair. He drops his head against the bars and makes fists in Zevran’s shirt. “I need you so much.”

It’s a pitiful thing to say and an even _more_ pitiful thing to think, but it’s _true_ —he’s never needed anyone as much as he needs Zevran right now.

“If I could melt these bars,” whispers Zevran. “I would stay with you all night.”

Alistair looks up. It doesn’t _sound_ like something Zevran would say. It’s too gentle—too much of a promise. But when he looks, he sees how genuine Zevran is. It makes him feel like he’s on the verge of tears—to have someone so good and kind looking at him like that. And in light of what they’ve just done—the salty piquancy of Zevran still on the back of his tongue—it feels real.

“..and I promise,” continues Zevran, “I’m going to get you out of here.”

 

* * *

 

**Zevran**

 

It takes Zevran hours to come down from that tryst in the dungeon. In fact, he doesn’t go directly to the inn where he’s staying. Instead, he takes the long way back, through the forest. He needs to think of what to do. The entire area—actually, the entire _country_ —is full of Crows who want Alistair dead. He needs to navigate the situation carefully.

One thing he absolutely _cannot_ do is sneak Alistair out. It’s ludicrous to even consider it. No, he’ll have to make a deal. Ultimately, the Crows are an organization for hire—they go to the highest bidder. Unfortunately, Zevran does not have the capital to get Alistair out of this and neither does _he_ —Ferelden has been in a recession in recent years. _No_ , money won’t do it—but a favor might.

In the years since Zevran rejoined the Crows—after Daylen left—he’s managed to garnish favor with a few important people. Maybe one of them could be swayed.

He sets about sending carrier pigeons the very next morning. Instead of asking for anything right away, he tries to set up meetings. These sorts of things need to be handled in person. It’s made more difficult by the fact that he has to contact aides and ancillary members of each house. Contacting anyone higher up would set off red flags that he can’t afford.

While he waits for a response, he thinks about going back to see Alistair again, but he doesn’t dare. He needs to give it a few more days before he can chance it again. Maybe he will have more information by then—he _hopes_ he will.

 

* * *

 

It takes a few days, but eventually an invitation arrives. It’s from one of the Masters, although Zevran doesn’t know which one. Their identities are secret, for everyone’s benefit. He feels a prickle of nervousness in his gut as he reads and rereads the letter. It’s cordial, but not friendly. He didn’t expect anything else, but it still scares him. This is delicate.

He’s to arrive in three days. Until then, he needs to prepare for every scenario… and he needs to see Alistair. It’s _weak_ and _stupid_ , but he can’t wait anymore.

As soon as the streets clear out, Zevran sneaks out of his room at the inn and down into the prisons again. He’s lucky that he knows this particular grouping of cells and that he’s relatively well-liked because seeing Alistair _alone_ is of the utmost importance.

Only, when he gets within earshot of the cell, he doesn’t hear _anything_.

“Alistair?” he whispers.

 _Nothing_.

He whispers again, “Alistair?”

He grabs onto the bars of Alistair’s cell and leans in. That’s when he sees him—a lump of tattered cloth and bloodied hair.

“Alistair…” he breathes. “What have they done to you?”

He doesn’t move. Zevran’s stomach lurches. _Is he dead?_

“Alistair,” he says. It’s full volume this time, which is _stupid_ , but he only barely stopped himself from screaming. He’s panicked already.

“Alistair, please get up.”  He kneels against the bars, gripping them so tightly his knuckles blanch. He looks around the cell desperately—the lock is impossible to pick, by design. What good is a normal lock in a Crow prison? They’re usually magically sealed. He wishes transiently that Daylen was here—he would know what to do. He always did, didn’t he? Even when he was cruel, he _led_ them.

Zevran needs someone to tell him what to do and how to be. He clearly can’t do it on his own. _Fuck._

...then Alistair moves—just a tiny shift, but he’s _alive_.

“Alistair?” Zevran pushes his face as far into the bars as he can and squints in the darkness. “Alistair, come over here. I have food and water for you.”

Alistair tries to say something, but it comes out like a rasping cough. Zevran winces.

“Come on, Caro… you can do it.” He _hears_ himself use the endearment like it’s someone else.

Alistair manages to drag himself against the bars. It takes an incredible amount of effort and time, but he makes it. Zevran feels every strain like it’s his own.

“Zev?” gasps Alistair. “I thought you left me.”

Zevran shakes his head. “Maker, no… I wouldn’t,” he stumbles over the words, discovering they’re true only as he says them.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” manages Alistair. His eyes keep closing asymmetrically.

“Here. Take some water.” Zevran pushes a skin through the bars and watches Alistair struggle to drink it. He ends up coughing up most of it, but he gets _some_ in.

“Zevran… am I going to die in here?”

“No. I promise.”

They whisper together for as long as Zevran dares. The sun is starting to crest before he makes it up to the surface and back to the inn. The vision of Alistair half-dead in that prison is etched into his mind—he thinks he might vomit. It’s not the Crow way. He’s a disgrace. But he _promised_. He has to get Alistair out.

 

With that in mind, he goes to his meeting.

“Zevran,” says a hooded figure. The masters all dress like this—exactly the same, so no one can be singled out.

Zevran bows low.

“I understand you have a proposition for me,” says the hood.

Zevran knows better than to ask who he is. Instead, he launches into a calculatedly detached version of why he wants the king of Ferelden released. He outlines the benefits to Antiva and to the Crows particularly. When he’s done, he looks down at the floor and waits.

“I’m willing to consider this request.” The hood paces just a few feet away, but Zevran doesn’t look up. “Provided you’re willing to demonstrate your commitment.”

Zevran can _guess_ what that means. It wouldn’t be the first time he ended up on his knees to seal a pact—it might be the first time he’s done it for _someone else_ , though.

Except that _isn’t_ what the man wants.

“Zevran, I’ve spent a long time in this hood,” he says. “It’s time for someone else to take it over.”

Zevran finally looks up.

“...and we’ve been watching you. We know you have what it takes.”

Zevran feels something hot spread through his guts.

“If I release this king, you will have to agree to return here and assume your rightful position among us,” he concludes.

Zevran’s mind whirs. He has wanted this for _years_ —ever since he found himself back with the Crows. But being a master means cutting off all ties to the outside world. It means living in secret. It means no attachments. He could have agreed to all that in a heartbeat… before… _Damn you, Alistair_.

“When?” asks Zevran.

“Return Alistair to his country, finish up what you need to, and then come back,” he answers.

Zevran swallows hard, but the decision is easy—he can’t leave Alistair like that and he’s out of options. He agrees.

* * *

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair is rescued, a little worse for wear. Zevran deals with some unfamiliar feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a memory in this chapter, but nothing scary happens.

* * *

**Alistair**

For a second, Alistair doesn’t know where he is. Someone lays him down on a soft mat and brushes fingers through his hair.

He blinks. _It’s Zevran_.

“How did you…?” Alistair stumbles over the words, gasping and coughing.

“We can talk about that later,” says Zevran. He hands him a vial of green liquid. “Drink this.”

Alistair does it. It’s not a _strong_ potion, but it’s enough that he’s starting not to ache _everywhere_. They’re in a little tent. He doesn’t know where, but it hardly matters—he’s outside; he’s _free_.

“You're incredible,” says Alistair. They stare at each other—silently sizing each other up. This is, for all intents and purposes, the first serious compliment between them. For a second, he thinks Zevran is going to kick him out. 

...but he doesn’t. Zevran tips his chin and wraps his hands around Alistair's neck. They're kissing and rubbing and rolling on a tiny matt on the floor of the threadbare tent before Alistair’s potion has even fully taken effect.

He's barely even sure how he got out of prison, actually. One minute, he was sure his demise was imminent, and the next his feet hit wet earth and rain soaked through his shirt. When _whoever_ took the bag off his head, he couldn't see—too-long hair in his eyes and darkness all around. But then, that voice: Zevran's voice.

_Wake up, Mio Caro._

And now, they roll together against the mat, limbs intertwined and lips crashing. Peeling wet clothes off without care for buttons or strings.

“Take your pants off,” manages Alistair. He doesn’t know _how_ since he couldn’t even imagine this just yesterday, but he’s _emphatic_.

Zevran bites his lip.

“ _Do it_ ,” he urges, grabbing for the buckles and ties. Truthfully, his own fingers are too clumsy from days of malnutrition to do it himself, or he would. He'd rip every seam to get to Zevran's perfect skin.

Zevran obeys—like he always does when Alistair doesn't ask. It strikes a chord.

“If—if you _want_ to,” Alistair adds. He puts a hand over Zevran's, staying his frantic movements.

Zevran looks up. “I _want_ to.”

Alistair knows he's smiling—it's stupid and foolish, but he can't help it. His face feels like someone else's—someone who _hasn't_ been in a dungeon for the last week. Someone who has found… well… he doesn't dare say it.

The next second, he's flat on his back. His tattered clothes are somewhere else—flung without regard for their integrity. Zevran straddles his hips and leans down to kiss him.

“You're perfect,” Alistair whispers.

Zevran rolls his eyes and growls—like that’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard.

“Stop,” says Alistair. “You _are_.” They stare at each other. Alistair is _sure_ he’s about to be kicked out this time.

They push and pull and roll and twist until they're face to face in the dark. Zevran looks like something—guilty, indebted? He reaches for Alistair's cock between them; but Alistair shakes his head.

“Don't—just be with me…”

Zevran raises a skeptical eyebrow.

“Please…” says Alistair. “Just lie here with me…”

Alistair thinks Zevran might argue, but he doesn't. Instead, he rolls away from Alistair and backs up into the circle of his arms.

Alistair kisses the branch of Zevran's neck and the point of his ear.

They breathe and sigh in tandem, until Alistair remembers—Zevran called him something...something _sweet_ —a few times.

“You probably don't know this, but I understand a little Antivan,” whispers Alistair.

Zevran turns his head. “You do?”

Alistair nods. “You're _my_ darling too…”

Zevran closes his eyes and curls more deeply against Alistair’s chest. He doesn't say anything else, but Alistair knows… this _means_ something.

 

* * *

* * *

 

**Zevran**

 

Zevran wakes before the sun rises. His head is resting on Alistair’s outstretched arm—it must be numb by now, but he doesn’t look uncomfortable. In fact, upon closer inspection, he looks _happy_ —like he’s having the most pleasant of dreams.

“Good morning, Tesoro,” Alistair whispers suddenly. He does it without opening his eyes.

Zevran laughs. “You know _that_ one too?”

Alistair blinks and nods. “...and one more: _Amore_.”

Zevran isn’t sure how to respond, so he stays quiet. He rolls over in the circle of Alistair’s arms so they’re chest to chest. Alistair looks alarmingly better this morning. Zevran feels relief wash over him. He has one more healing potion, which he would have gladly given Alistair this morning, but it seems safer to save it for what might be _next_.

“Aren’t you curious as to _why_ I know these Antivan endearments?” asks Alistair. He’s smirking haughtily.

“I’m not sure I want to know,” says Zevran. He didn’t mean to say that, actually. It’s too close to insecurity, but truthfully, he doesn’t want to picture Alistair with someone else—someone who taught him those words.

Alistair laughs. “Yes, you do… it’s not what you’re thinking.” He ducks down to kiss the skin above Zevran’s clavicle and laughs again.

“All right,” Zevran acquiesces.

“So about six years ago, I was supposed to get married,” he says.

“How is this _not_ what I was thinking?” asks Zevran.

“—Just wait,” Alistair takes a deep breath. “So she was this Antivan…” he pauses. “The daughter of one of those prominent banking families…”

Zevran nods. He knows the type.

“Anyway, when I met her, she was _not_ what I was expecting,” says Alistair.

“In what way?” asks Zevran.

“Well, for starters, she was eighteen years old,” says Alistair. “She could hardly look at me without bursting into tears…”

Zevran laughs. “But you’re so handsome…”

“Right?” Alistair smirks. “That’s what _I_ thought!”

They kiss a few times—it almost turns into something else, but Alistair keeps talking.

“Anyway… I knew instantly that it wasn’t going to work out… so I told my uncles she had to go back. They were _super pleased_ , of course.” He laughs again. “But she was so grateful that she wrote me letters for years afterwards—like a pen pal…

“...but her command of the King’s Tongue is rather spotty… so I hired a tutor to help me understand her. Eventually, the whole thing turned into a series of language lessons,” explains Alistair. “Now, when I write to her, it’s completely in Antivan.”

“Now?”

Alistair blushes. “Yeah… we still write to each other sometimes… she’s married now, don’t worry.”

Zevran rolls his eyes—as if _that_ means anything.

Alistair wraps a big palm around the edge of Zevran’s jaw. “I promise—I never wanted to do any of this with her.”

Zevran lets his mouth open gently as Alistair kisses him. It’s so unlike him—so unlike anything he’s let himself _do_ or _be_ before. He wonders if this means he’s lost his mind.

“She has a little girl now,” adds Alistair. “And she calls her the most beautiful endearment of all: Stellina.”

Zevran smiles, despite himself. “Little Star…”

Alistair nods. “Isn’t that sweet?”

“Yes…” Zevran’s quiet for a second. Alistair has resumed kissing and sucking the edge of this neck, but Zevran feels rather far away. He’s thinking about children. It’s something he hasn’t let himself do in fifteen years.

* * *

 

**15 Years Ago**

“Did you see the look on that little kid’s face today?” asks Daylen.

Zevran smiles, remembering.

“He was so thankful… as if we'd given him a feast, not just some leftover bread…” adds Daylen.

Daylen might be cruel to Zevran, but he's _exceedingly_ kind to children…

“It's easy to be thankful when you're starving,” mumbles Zevran.

They're lying side by side in a little tent. The whole group is a bit closer together tonight than they usually are. Zevran can hear Alistair doing something in the tent next to them. Knowing him, he's probably writing or sharpening his sword or some other thing, equally as banal.

“Is that what _you_ were?” asks Daylen suddenly.

Zevran rolls his head to look at him. “What?”

“Were you _starving_?”

“Oh… yes, I suppose I was… before the Crows got me—afterward too.”

Daylen shakes his head. “I was in a circle by the time I was that old… and it was horrible… but at least we had food…”

Zevran nods.

“If we make it through this, we could do something about that,” says Daylen.

“About what?”

“About orphans…” he explains. He looks up at the ceiling like he's picturing it. “We could take them in—you and me.”

It's mad to even think about, but Zevran _does_. He imagines a little house on the seaside, children laughing, Daylen making dinner. He doesn't know why he lets himself do it—it's exactly the type of thing Daylen will use against him later. But it's there: boring a hole in his emotional armor. That's the moment he realizes he's in love—and he _hates_ it.

 

* * *

 

**Presently**

 

“Where did you go?” asks Alistair. He picks his head up and looks so deeply into Zevran’s eyes, it almost hurts.

Zevran certainly isn’t going to tell him. It’s the weakest memory he’s let himself have since this all began. He’d rather remember being beaten half to death than this. _This_ is the low point.

—and yet… when Alistair asks again, he finds himself explaining it—in vivid detail: the house, the children, the food on the stove. Alistair laughs and smiles and gestures with his hands as they paint the picture against the little tent’s ceiling.

It’s the closest to perfect he’s ever envisioned. He doesn’t realize until he’s totally done explaining, that it’s because he pictured _Alistair_ in that little house. It was _his_ voice that called out into the yard and laughed around the corner.

_Oh shit._

* * *

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sea crossing leaves Alistair sick and vulnerable to blurting inconvenient truths. Zevran prepares to leave; it's harder than he imagined it would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sex in this chapter. Nothing violent, no bad memories.

* * *

**Alistair**

 

They leave in the middle of the night. Alistair isn't ready when Zevran drags him to his feet and pulls him by the arm, but he follows, in the same way Zevran does when Alistair doesn't ask. The tables are turned, and there's nothing he wants to do but exactly what Zevran says.

It takes several days for him to realize they're going home. He doesn't ask, for fear of ruining something. Besides, he can't be sure who is listening. Their seafaring companions aren't typically the trustworthy type. So he stays quiet. He spends the nights on the boat curled against Zevran's side, trying not to vomit—he _hates_ the ocean.

“It's all right, Caro,” says Zevran. He runs his fingers through Alistair's hair and sings—melancholy songs that Alistair hears in his dreams. It doesn't matter how sad they are, there's nowhere else Alistair would rather be.

 

“How much longer?” Alistair whispers on the eighth night at sea. His stomach is tied in knots and he can't remember the last time food was appetizing—not that there's anything worth eating on this god-forsaken boat… but still.

“Soon, Tesoro,” says Zevran. “Just a few more days.”

Zevran calls him the sweetest things now— _every_ time they talk. At the beginning, his first name used to give him chills when he heard Zevran say it. Now, it pales in comparison to these words—these _titles_. It's this realization that leads him to say something very stupid:

“I love you.”

Zevran stops moving—suddenly a cornered animal, scared and frozen.

“Zevran?” Alistair props himself on his elbow so he can look into Zevran's eyes.

“I—I can't.” He turns away suddenly, but he doesn't leave… he just faces the bunk wall in the circle of Alistair's arms.

“You can't what?” asks Alistair. He wraps an arm around Zevran's waist and pulls him in tight.

“Stop… you _know_ I can't,” reiterates Zevran.

“You _can_ …” Alistair says. _I believe in you._

They're silent.

“...but I'll wait.”

...and despite all evidence to the contrary, Alistair believes that everything is going to work out.

 

 

* * *

* * *

 

**Zevran**

 

Two weeks later, Zevran finds a rhythm. They've been back in Ferelden for exactly 15 days when he receives the first letter urging him back to Antiva. It’s time for him to fulfill his end of the deal. It’s time for him to become a shadow.

In preparation for leaving Alistair alone, he instructs the kingsguard in tactics and stealth. It's mostly hopeless, but they're nothing if not loyal. They love Alistair, it seems—maybe almost as much as he should: as much as he's _learning_ to.

Zevran starts to catalogue the expressions on Alistair’s face. He wants to remember them when they can never see each other again. He has a sincerity Zevran has rarely seen. It’s especially poignant first thing in the morning—in the moments between sleeping and waking. This morning, though, Alistair gets out of bed before Zevran has a chance to look at him.

“Love?” calls Alistair. He's already up and banging around in the kitchen of that little cottage. It's become Zevran's semi-permanent residence now.

“Yes?” Zevran calls back. He can't believe he's responding to those kinds of endearments— _how gauche_.

“Come in here—I made breakfast,” answers Alistair. There's a hint of laughter in his voice. “It might be terrible… it's the thought that counts, right?”

Zevran pulls a pair of shorts around his waist and ties them.

“What did you make?” he asks, rounding the corner.

When he sees Alistair, his breath catches a little. He's wearing a thin undergarment that's partially see-through. His cock is clearly visible through the thin fabric—Zevran watches it harden as he gets nearer. It’s a _relief_ , actually. He was weak for days after his incarceration and subsequent sea voyage.

“Eggs, toast, berries,” answers Alistair, pulling Zevran into his arms.

“You _made_ berries?” Zevran laughs.

“Oh, stop… you know what I mean…” Alistair kisses Zevran's forehead and cheek and jaw before finally settling on his lips.

Zevran puts a hand down his pants and strokes his cock gently. It's the kind of gesture that belies familiarity—even more than that, it connotes _trust_.

“Leave it here and fuck me,” says Zevran. “We can come back to this.”

Alistair rolls his eyes, but Zevran knows it's hollow. He's already leaking.

“Please… Mio Caro… make love to me,” says Zevran. He chooses each word carefully, because he knows Alistair will like them, but he also _means_ them in a way he never has before.

Alistair follows him into the bedroom and pushes him backward onto the bed.

Zevran wriggles out of his pants and grips his cock between them. He rubs the head against Alistair's abdomen and groans. It's a little louder than he would normally—but Alistair likes the show. He likes to know how much Zevran is enjoying himself… and right now, Zevran is enjoying himself _a lot_.

“Let me,” says Alistair.

“Let you what?” asks Zevran.

“Everything,” says Alistair. He winks and reaches his hand between them to grasp both of them with his palm. His hands are so big, he almost manages to make a complete circle.

“Mmm,” Zevran moans gently. “I want you in my mouth.”

Alistair swallows hard. It's a strange reaction, because they've had sex a hundred times now, but he seems as excited this time as he did the first—maybe more. Zevran doesn't understand it, but he feels it too. He's never been so attracted to someone, never been so intrigued at the prospect of sucking the same dick night after night.

“Please, Tesoro... please…”

Alistair nods. He's blushing, but even _that_ is starting to feel endearing. Zevran kisses him once before he shifts to kneel over Zevran's chest.

When he first thrusts into Zevran's mouth, it feels like choking is inevitable. He's so thick and salty. Pressed against the back of Zevran's throat, he feels doubly so.

“Okay?” asks Alistair.

Zevran nods, even though his mouth is full. He inhales through his nose and wraps his hands around to grab Alistair's ass. It's firm and full in his hands. Alistair is so handsome and compelling, it's horrifying. He doesn't know how he ever ignored it.

“Maker…” breathes Alistair. He closes his eyes and runs his fingers through his own hair. Stretched out like that, Zevran sees every ripple of muscle across his abdomen and each attachment at his ribs. He’s easily the best looking person Zevran has ever fucked. And… he’s _his_ —in some way that Zevran thought was a fairytale. At least… he is _for now_.

Zevran pulls on the back of Alistair’s thighs so he’ll thrust.

“Are you sure?” asks Alistair.

It’s an absurd thing to ask, since Zevran is the one directing here, but he appreciates it nevertheless. If his mouth wasn’t so full, he’d laugh.

Alistair nods and starts to move. The first few thrusts are gentle, but they don’t stay that way. Soon, he’s slamming the blunt head of his cock into the back of Zevran’s throat. It’s rough, but not angry. It’s forceful, but not demanding.

Zevran groans and hums. He can tell Alistair’s already close from the way he’s moving. That warden blood is something—he’s almost forty and he can come like he’s twenty. Of course, Zevran didn’t know him _like this_ when he was twenty—but he wishes he did.

While Zevran is still thinking, he tastes it: salty and sour and thick against the back of his throat. He swallows around the orgasm and manages not to let anything spill onto his neck.

“Maker… you’re amazing,” says Alistair. He collapses onto Zevran—chest to chest, face to face.

“So are you, Mio Caro,” whispers Zevran.

Zevran feels almost like he might cry. He closes his eyes and imagines all those beautiful expressions Alistair wears. His days are numbered. This is the exact reason Crows don’t get attached—separation feels fatal.

 

“Love?” Alistair whispers suddenly.

“Mmm?” Zevran blinks and wipes a hand across his eyes, pretending he’s just winded from exertion.

“Did you ever notice me before?” asks Alistair.

“Before what?” Zevran manages to laugh.

“When we traveled together… did you ever think we might end up here?” he clarifies.

Zevran laughs again. “Not a chance.”

Alistair almost laughs, but it ends in an audible swallow. Zevran wonders what that means.

“ _I_ did…” he blurts.

Zevran looks up into his eyes—suddenly focused and inquisitive.

“...I mean, I didn't think it would _happen_ …” explains Alistair. “But I wanted it to… I dreamed about you… like this.”

Zevran rubs a hand down Alistair's side.  It eventually winds toward his crotch, where his cock is already starting to stiffen again.

“You wanted me back then?” asks Zevran.

Alistair nods. “How could I _not_?”

“ _What_ did you want?” prods Zevran.

Alistair laughs. “At the time… I didn’t know _what_ I wanted...I’d never done anything, remember?”

Zevran nods. “How did that happen? Didn’t you grow up in a confined space with a bunch of other strapping boys?”

“Yes… but it’s not as sexy as you’re making it sound… the guilt is pervasive.”

“I see…” Zevran shifts to run his hand over Alistair’s cock. It’s twitching slightly. “So what did you want to _do_ to me?”

“Do?” Alistair quirks an eyebrow. “I mostly imagined you sucking my dick, to be honest.”

They both laugh.

“I didn’t even really know the mechanics of such a thing, but I had an imagination… and I knew what you did with Daylen… so…”

“Wait, what?”

Alistair blushes scarlet. “Everyone did…”

Zevran feels suddenly sweaty. _What does he mean?_ Zevran had decided weeks ago that they weren’t going to talk about that; it’s a secret he’ll take with him when he leaves. Because ultimately, he wants Alistair to look at him like he’s someone strong— _not_ that person who let Daylen hurt him; not that person who begged and pleaded; not that person who was _barely_ a person at all.

“Hey… it’s okay,” says Alistair. He cups Zevran’s face in his hands and looks deeply into his eyes. “We all have pasts…”

Zevran takes a deep breath. Maybe Alistair doesn’t know the extent of it.

“But...I know he was horrible to you,” adds Alistair.

Zevran’s inclination is to stick up for Daylen—even after this long, an assault on Daylen feels personal—but he suppresses it. He just nods.

“Zev?” Alistair curls even closer, so his face is half squished into the pillow. “Why didn’t you leave him?”

_So he **does** know, then._

There’s no point in lying now. “I loved him,” says Zevran.

Alistair nods, but he looks like something hurts. Zevran still hasn’t answered that question of love that’s been hanging in the air since their sea-crossing.

“He didn’t know that, though,” adds Zevran. “I mean… I never said it—I _wouldn’t_.”

Alistair squints.

Zevran shrugs against the pillow. “It was the only thing I had left—the _last_ bargaining chip…”  It sounds ridiculous now that he’s explaining it.

“I understand,” says Alistair. He rubs his hand up and down Zevran’s side. “We all made sacrifices back then—we had to.”

“It wasn’t that,” says Zevran seriously. “I guess… I just didn’t know it could be any other way.”

Alistair squints. “What does that mean?”

Zevran feels small. “I wasn’t like you, Alistair… I didn’t have people who loved me.”

He knows Alistair’s life wasn’t perfect—he experienced plenty of heartache before he was an adult, but he had a few key people who showed him—who taught him how to be kind. It’s obvious in every one of his actions.

Alistair hugs him suddenly—pushes him flat on his back and wraps his arms all the way around. “I’m so sorry that happened to you, Zev…”

Zevran thinks—for a split second—that he’s going to cry. It’s so surprising that he doesn’t even recognize it right away: a prickling, wet, miserable feeling in the back of his throat, dread spreading across his chest. And yet, if ever there was a time to cry, it would be here: in the safety of Alistair’s arms. The fact that he might not be here again only intensifies the feeling.

“Zev?” Alistair rises onto his forearms suddenly. “Zev—are you okay?”

Zevran shakes his head. It’s almost imperceptible, but it’s there—the ultimate sign of weakness; the ultimate surrender.

Alistair presses their foreheads together and whispers. “It’s okay; I’m here.”

Zevran wrestles with himself. He holds his breath until he’s sure he’ll pass out, but it’s no use. The unexpressed sob just intensifies until it _has_ to come out.

He watches himself cry from some high corner of the room. He realizes that _this_ is what he’s been trying to avoid with pain all these years—as if the external kind can ever really take away what is intrinsic. What a _fool_ he’s been.

Alistair holds him through the whole thing. He rubs his hair and kisses his cheeks. He whispers and shushes. He pours all the kindness in the world into Zevran—and it hurts more than every electrical shock and errant flame, more than every sharpened knife and rusted manacle. It hurts in a way that _has_ to be expressed.

“Alistair?”

They look at each other.

“I love you too.”

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can we all just breathe a big sigh of relief after this one? ...three little words...


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran's time is up. Unfortunately, everything unravels as soon as he's on his own again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: this chapter is the darkest so far. It has some implied non-con type things in it and there is discussion of physical abuse in the memory section... nothing about either of those topics is glorified, but it could be disturbing to certain readers... so, use your best judgment.

* * *

**Zevran**

Zevran waits as long as he can, but after he has to dodge an arrow in broad daylight, he _knows_ —his time is up. He takes off in the middle of the night.

Running like this feels familiar—and horrible. In fact, it’s more horrible than the last time he ran, which is strange since he was _literally_ running for his life that time.

 

* * *

 

**15 Years Ago**

Zevran’s chest hurts under the exertion—it doesn’t help that at least three of his ribs are broken. He’s been running longer than he knew was possible, but he had to leave—he’s _finally_ had enough. It took being beaten within an inch of his life to listen to the little voice inside that’s been screaming for the better part of a year. How did he manage to ignore it for so long?

It happened in small ways, he thinks. In the beginning it was all a game—sexy and dangerous and something that Zevran could handle. In fact, he can _still_ handle the sex; it’s everything _else_ that’s gotten so out of control.

It’s the constant fighting; it’s the implication that Zevran’s mind doesn’t work as well or as quickly as Daylen’s. The sad thing is, he _believes_ it. Daylen is clever and wise and ruthless. Who is Zevran compared to _that_?

So he’s running—even though he probably deserves everything he’s gotten. And it hurts to leave—he’s already thinking of the way Daylen smells after a bath and the smug expression he wears when he wins an argument.

 _No_.

Zevran wills his mind to be quiet and his legs to keep moving. He has to get far enough away so that he won’t be found. He needs to make it to the border and onto a ship before he loses his nerve. He’s already gone crawling back more times than he can count… every time he starts over, he’s in more of an emotional debt. He can’t take it one more time. No matter how much he _loves_ —no matter how much he _needs_.

 

Less than twelve hours later, Daylen finds him… and just like all the other times… he goes back.

 

* * *

 

**Presently**

This time, Zevran runs because he’s protecting someone else… He saved Alistair—he’s at home in his warm, safe castle. He’s going to get to live out the rest of his life in relative peace… and maybe, _someday_ , he’ll meet someone to love—someone who can love him in the way he deserves. Not like Zevran—no matter what he feels…he’s far too _ruined_ for such a thing.

By the time he makes it to the border, he has almost convinced himself this will be best for everyone, despite the ache in his chest. The ship he’s chartered space on won’t leave until tomorrow, so he finds an inconspicuous inn and settles himself into a corner of the bar.

...that’s when he sees _him_. He would know that face anywhere.

Zevran feels the hairs on the back of his neck stick up, but he doesn’t move—he knows better.

“Zev…” says Daylen. His voice is quiet and measured—as if they saw each other _yesterday_ , not more than a decade ago. “How are you?” He sits next to him in the little booth—too close, actually.

Zevran swallows. “What are you doing here?”

Daylen laughs. “So suspicious… it’s cute.” Daylen pats Zevran’s knee below the edge of the table.

Zevran cringes.

“Come on, let’s go back to your room,” says Daylen.

Zevran blinks. He has a highly developed fight with himself wherein he tells Daylen where he can _go_. He screams about how many years they’ve been apart and about all the years he spent hating himself because of Daylen’s influence, but he doesn’t say _any_ of it. In fact, he doesn’t even finish thinking through it until he’s upstairs, bolting the door.

He lets Daylen take him to bed and _wreck_ him. He doesn’t even know _why_. It isn’t the worst it’s ever been—in fact, it’s downright mild… but it hurts just the same.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, Zevran opens his eyes only when he knows Daylen is dead asleep. He knows that sneaking out of bed isn’t allowed—at least it wasn’t... _before_. The rules seem to be rather the same, though. Last night, he didn’t find himself on the receiving end of any damaging spells, but he was forced to make himself a _receptacle_ of various kinds. He never said _no_ … but he didn’t think he even _deserved_ to.

So now, in the morning, he’s trying to figure out how to get out of here without angering Daylen. While he’s still thinking, he remembers what _yesterday_ morning was like. _I love you_ , Alistair had whispered while Zevran’s eyes were still closed. He could cry just thinking about it.

Daylen stirs next to him. Zevran freezes, but it’s a false alarm—shifting in his sleep.

If Zevran could figure out how to get out of this room, he thinks he would run back to Alistair—regardless of his deal with the Crows. They can track him down and murder him for all he cares. He’d trade his life for just a few more days with Alistair, at this point.

But… how can he go back _now_? Now that he’s full of someone else’s come and probably bleeding… now that he’s ruined from the inside out?

 _He can’t._ He absolutely _can’t_ go back. Daylen is a constant in his life—maybe of his own invention. He’s the symbol for everything that holds Zevran back. He’s the fixture that reminds him that he isn’t worth shit.

So Zevran decides to stay in bed and wait.

 

* * *

 

A while later, Daylen wakes up.

“I thought you might try to sneak out on me,” says Daylen. He wraps his arm around Zevran’s waist and pulls him in tight. It’s _so_ like something Alistair would do, except everything about it feels _horrible_.

“Why would I?” asks Zevran. He makes a face that could be construed as coy, but it’s actually just a mask.

“Why, indeed?” Daylen leans in and kisses him. The inside of his mouth tastes like sleep and ale. Zevran hates it.

He hates it just as much when Daylen trails his hand down toward Zevran’s cock and rubs it. It betrays him, of course—standing at attention with only the slightest provocation. He laughs internally: _it’s protecting him_. It remembers what happens when it doesn’t cooperate. Zevran traces a crack in the wall with his eyes and tries not to _think_.

           

* * *

 

Eventually, Daylen finishes. Zevran doesn’t, but neither of them seems to care.

“All right, Zev…” Daylen speaks while he washes himself across the room. He’s still so fucking handsome—and _evil_. “I need you to do something for me…”

Zevran sits up and drops his feet off the edge of the bed. He doesn’t bother trying to cover himself because he doesn’t feel like a _person_ anymore.

“I’ve found a cure,” says Daylen.

That makes Zevran look up. “What?”

“I found it—a cure for the calling…” he says.

Zevran swallows.

“...but there’s something I need,” adds Daylen.

Zevran hates everything about the way Daylen looks right now—like he's won some crazy game; like he's just ended _another_ blight—but he _loves_ what he's saying. What he's saying is that _Alistair might live_.

“What do you need?” Zevran asks.

“Just a vial of blood,” answers Daylen. “From you… given to me at precisely the right time in precisely the right place.”

“From _me_?”

Daylen rolls his eyes. “Yes, Zevran… do try to keep up.”

Zevran grits his teeth. “Why _me_?”

Daylen saunters across the room and pushes Zevran flat on his back. He looms over him. “Because we're connected… even though you never said it… I _know_.”

Zevran swallows hard. He doesn't dare argue, but he wants to scream that they _aren't_ ; that maybe they never were. That he knows the _difference_ now.

“So, we have to go back to Fort Drakon,” adds Daylen. He leans down to bite into the skin of Zevran's shoulder. He does it under the guise of a kiss, but there isn't anything tender about it.

Zevran tries to remember the last time Alistair kissed him in that exact spot. It was on the ship. He was curled into Zevran's chest, babbling on about making sea travel _illegal_ ; his lips trailed across the surface of Zevran's skin in every kind way imaginable. It was the day before he said he loved him, but Zevran already knew.

“Did you hear me?” asks Daylen. His face is incredibly close to Zevran's.

Zevran blinks.

“What are you _thinking_ about?” Daylen sneers.

“Fort Drakon,” Zevran lies. “I never considered we'd go back there.”

Daylen nods and starts to throw his things together. “Come on, Zev. Time to go.”

* * *

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair deals with feelings of rejection. Zevran and Daylen come back to court.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing inherently scary in this chapter, but things are looking kind of bleak.

* * *

**Alistair**

 

Virtually every morning, Alistair _forgets_ : He forgets he’s alone now; he forgets he isn’t in that cottage by the docks; he forgets Zevran left him.

...then he opens his eyes… and it all comes rushing back.

           

When he arrived at the little cottage a week ago, it was empty. _So_ empty, that it looked like no one had _ever_ stayed there. It certainly didn’t look like the place they’d been _living_ —the place they’d been falling in love. Most troublingly, a single piece of crinkled paper was sitting on the desk. It was the only thing left of Zevran.

* * *

 

_Alistair,_

_I’ve given this a lot of thought. I can’t stay._

_Z_

* * *

 

Alone in his room, Alistair thinks of Zevran. He imagines the way he stretches out on the bed and beckons him over. He imagines the strain of taut muscles as he groans and writhes. He also remembers that he’s _gone_. That makes the way his cock strains less enticing. He feels like some kind of predator—thinking about his lover who left him. Who is Alistair to demand he comes back? Even a king has limits.

None of that logic stops him from touching, though. He runs his palm up and down the shaft without hesitation. He rubs until it _hurts_ , actually—right through the messy orgasm and beyond… until he starts to feel a little of what Zevran is always talking about: that pain that blocks everything else out.

...except it _doesn’t_. The whole thing is a colossal _lie_ : there is no pain—physical or otherwise—that can erase Zevran.

 

 

* * *

 

**Zevran**

 

It takes them longer to get back to Denerim than it took Zevran to get away. Even though it was just a few days ago, he feels like a different person on the return trip—probably because Daylen is back. He changes _everything_.

“Zev?”

He was so lost in thought, he startles at Daylen’s voice.

“How have you been?” he asks.

What a _ridiculous_ thing to ask. Zevran would _laugh_ if he wasn’t scared of what might happen.

“Variable,” he answers.

Daylen laughs—musical and genuine-sounding. It might trick some people into thinking the years had tamed him,  but not Zevran. He _knows_ that laugh—it’s one of his signature ploys.

“Did you stay in Ferelden?” he asks.

“No, actually,” answers Zevran.

They’re plodding along side by side through wet underbrush. Zevran speaks stutteringly and tries not to trip on errant roots and bushes.

“...I traveled…” he says. “I even ended up in the Free Marches for a while…”

“Really? I was there not too long ago—it’s a dump,” says Daylen.

Zevran catches himself smiling. _It’s true_.

“Well, it didn’t last long because I was always on the run,” Zevran says. Ostensibly, he means from the Crows, but he also means _from Daylen_ —he’s never run from anyone so hard in his life.

“So the Crows dragged you back eventually?”

Zevran nods. “But it hasn’t been _all_ bad… I picked up some interesting contracts…”

Daylen smiles. “Like killing Alistair?”

Zevran feels his muscles contract for a split second, but he doesn’t let it show. “You know about that?”

“I know about a lot of things,” says Daylen. “I also know you couldn’t do it…”

“And I suppose _you_ could have?” says Zevran. His words come out sharper than he intended.

“I doubt it,” says Daylen calmly. He hops over a gnarly root in his path and manages to smile. “Al’s a good kid—soft, but nice… don’t you think?”

Zevran feels destabilized. Daylen is being _too_ nice. This is exactly the kind of preamble he’s come to expect before the gaslighting starts.

“He’s a good king, too,” says Zevran. It’s true, but it isn’t the _whole_ truth. His internal monologue screams: _and I love him_.

Daylen smirks. “And a good lay?”

“ _And_ that,” says Zevran. He’s _testing_ —he wants to see what happens. He imagines a scenario where he ends up face down in the dirt, wracked with electricity, but Daylen just laughs. Sex with other people was never off limits, after all. It just had to be meaningless, which—of course—Daylen _assumes_ this is… he’s such a narcissist.

“We’ll have to convince him about this plan when we get back, Zev,” says Daylen. “He’ll be skeptical…”

Zevran swallows around a lump in his throat. “How do _you_ know what he’ll be like?”

Daylen laughs. “I _know_ him. Don’t you remember how scared of _everything_ he is?”

Zevran forces himself to laugh, but it’s humorless.

“So we’ll explain it when we get there…” Daylen pushes his shoulder in an approximation of camaraderie, “You’ll be able to _do_ that, won’t you, Zev?”

_Yes. He will._

  

 

* * *

 

**Alistair**

This particular morning—the tenth since Zevran left—Alistair wakes to the sound of horns. Of course, he wasn’t really sleeping. He hasn’t slept a minute since Zevran left. It’s ridiculous, really. They were barely together for any length of time at all. They spent more time meeting to randomly fuck than they did as any sort of a couple, but he _misses_ him—every minute of every day.

Alistair hears those horns again. It's a noise he can't ignore and now it's accompanied by something else: banging on his bedroom door.

“Yes?” He sits up in bed and lets the covers fall to his waist.

The door swings open before he’s ready for it.

“Al… get up,” says Daylen. It’s a command, but he’s smiling, actually. Alistair hasn’t seen him in fifteen years, but all of this is so _familiar_.

Alistair gapes. He’s still blinking sleep out of his eyes and trying to figure out if he’s dreaming.

“Get up,” Daylen repeats. He holds the door open longer than Alistair expects. Alistair doesn’t think much of it _until_...

_Maker… it’s Zevran._

“I found our friend trying to get on a ship,” he says, pushing Zevran into the room and bolting the door.

Zevran doesn’t _stumble_ , exactly, but his gate isn’t right. Usually, Zevran floats—he dances from foot to foot. It isn’t like that today.

Now, Alistair _wants_ to get up—he wants to cross the room and crush Zevran against his chest. He wants to hold him there long enough to get a straight answer about where he’s been and why he left… but because Daylen is standing between them, it’s impossible. He sits, frozen, in the middle of his big bed.

“Well?” asks Daylen. He rolls his eyes pointedly at Alistair’s armoire.

As Alistair stands to cross the room, he feels eyes on him. They aren’t Daylen’s though—they’re Zevran’s. It’s confusing because he simultaneously wants to scream at Zevran to look away and drag him across the room into the bed. He’s furious _and_ elated, relieved _and_ terrified… that’s what Zevran always elicits in him, he realizes: a confusing duality.

He manages to put on pants and throw a shirt on over his head. He doesn’t bother with anything else, though. He’s too fixated on the emotional turmoil building in his gut. Daylen is actively _touching_ Zevran. His hand is between Zevran’s shoulderblades—fingers making tiny circles in the fabric of his shirt. He imagines the reunion they might have had; it turns his stomach.

“All right,” says Daylen, “let’s go.”

Alistair notices that Zevran hasn’t said a word.

“Where are we going?” he asks.

“Downstairs—we need to meet somewhere privately,” answers Daylen. He pushes Zevran out the door— _literally_ pushes him—with that hand in the middle of his back.

Alistair has an instinct to hit him, but the look on Zevran’s face gives him pause—he’s absolutely _resigned_ , like he expects to be pushed.

As they trudge down the hallway toward Alistair’s meeting room, he notices a few other things that aren’t right about Zevran. His posture is all wrong. His shoulders are slumped forward and his gaze is somewhere on the floor, rather than the horizon. He’s used to Zevran looking up, standing tall. More troublingly, Alistair sees a mark—thick and red under his collar. It looks like a burn.

Despite this, Alistair doesn’t stop. He doesn’t scream. He just _walks_ … and looks at Zevran, walking just two steps away.

When they get to the door of this most central, secret room, Daylen pauses and looks both ways.

“You’re sure this is absolutely secure?” he asks.

Alistair nods and they all tumble inside.

The room is too small for its furniture—certainly, too small for the three of them to stand comfortably. They’re practically touching around the oversized table. As Daylen pulls a scroll out of his bag and flattens it in the middle, he does, in fact, touch Zevran. He brushes him with his arm.

It’s then that Alistair sees the first thing that gives him hope: _Zevran recoils_. It’s almost imperceptible, but it’s there.

 _Maybe everything is going to be okay after all_.

...but then Daylen glances down at Zevran’s face and some beautiful secret passes between them. The look on Zevran’s face is something Alistair has seen before… when he looked at _him_.

_It really is over._

 

* * *

 

Two hours later, the plan has been explained and debated ad nauseum. According to Daylen, it’s very simple. They need to first acquire the ingredients for the spell. Most of them are common, it’s only the _blood_ part that isn’t. Each warden has to have a vial of elven blood, given freely, from a person to whom he is connected.

Daylen has a solution for that: one that Alistair finds horrifying.

“That’s why Zev is here,” says Daylen coldly… as if his entire existence can be reduced to his usefulness.

Zevran won’t make eye contact with Alistair—maybe he isn’t _allowed_ to.

“What does he have to do?” asks Alistair.

“He’s an elf… he _knows_ us…” Daylen shrugs insouciantly. “He just has to give us his blood…”

“How _much_?” asks Alistair.

Daylen looks Zevran up and down like he’s assessing him. “Not much—he’ll be fine. Won’t you?”

Zevran nods and smiles. This whole exchange is heartbreaking to watch.

“Well then…” says Daylen. “I need to make some preparations. I’ll be in your guest wing.”

Alistair finds himself shrugging in Daylen’s same annoying way.

“Let’s meet back here tomorrow, then,” says Daylen. “I have work to do.” He looks at Zevran expectantly. Zevran doesn’t cower, exactly, but he _moves_ —faster than normal—to fall into step.

Alistair watches them leave—Daylen three steps ahead. At the absolute last second, Zevran looks back. It’s just a fraction of a second, but Alistair feels like his heart is going to rip out of his chest. He doesn’t know how to _survive_ this.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's possible that this story will be loner than 15 chapters, now that it has evolved a little. I'll be updating the total count as we go. 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has liked this story. I've gotten a little sidetracked with some other projects, but your enthusiasm for this has been very flattering. :)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran continues to struggle for the greater good. Alistair finally gets his chance to say something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a brief mention of some physical injuries Zevran has sustained in this chapter. No other warnings apply.

* * *

**Zevran**

 

Three days later, Daylen leaves Zevran in bed alone in the middle of the night. The moment the latch clicks and he knows he’s alone, he grabs his things and packs his bag—he doesn’t know where to go, but he can’t stay here. Even if he sleeps in the _stables_ , it will be an improvement. Of course, he can’t actually _leave_ —not when Alistair’s life is hanging in the balance.

He finds himself looking out the bedroom window. From this vantage point, he can see all of Denerim and a ways out to sea. It’s so peaceful this late. He remembers the nights he and Alistair spent in the little cottage by the water. He could hear gentle waves lapping against the dock outside. Sometimes, even with Alistair in bed next to him, Zevran couldn’t sleep. He would sit by the window and watch the water; take strolls outside. He never worried about what would happen if Alistair woke up. It feels like a different lifetime now.

Despite the trepidation he feels, he creeps out the door and silently around the corner.

 

He’s halfway down the corridor when he hears someone. He freezes, but it’s already too late. He turns slowly, half-expecting to be on the receiving end of an aggressive spell.

...but he _isn’t_. It’s Alistair. “Where are you going?” he asks. They’ve managed to not speak _at all_ since his return, but it has hurt every day. Two days ago, Zevran almost caved, but he pictured his end goal: Alistair—grey and wizened—and he managed to stay away.

“Zevran?”

Zevran wants to run to him, but he doesn’t. He straightens and manages to smile. It’s a facade, but he doesn’t know how _not_ to wear it.

“Zevran?” repeats Alistair. He starts walking toward him, steps quicker by degree. “Zevran, please.”

“Please, _what_?” asks Zevran.

Alistair reaches him. He stops just half a foot away. “Please don’t leave.”

“I’m not _leaving_ ,” Zevran snaps.

Alistair flinches at his tone.

Zevran takes a few tentative steps backward, but he doesn’t turn around. The idea of looking away is unpalatable to the extreme.

“Zevran… I don’t—I can’t understand…” Alistair follows him, step for step, down the corridor.

Zevran almost falters. A squeezing, choking feeling in the back of his throat almost throws him… but then he hears a voice.

“Problem?” says Daylen, stepping out of the shadows. His tone is suspicious, but light. “What are you two doing up?”

Zevran doesn’t turn around right away, so he sees Alistair’s expression change. That gentle frown he wears for Zevran curdles and contorts into something like fury.

“This is my castle. I’m allowed to be up in the night,” says Alistair flatly.

Daylen laughs. “Of course, Al… What are _you_ doing, Zev?”

Zevran turns, smiling placidly as he goes. “Just looking for you.” He hears Alistair shift uncomfortably behind him at that. Zevran can imagine the exact expression he’s making—he has an unbelievably detailed memory of the ways Alistair’s face can look. It would be incredibly romantic if it wasn’t so _sad_.

Zevran starts to walk toward Daylen. He doesn’t shuffle, although his muscles resist the forward motion.

“ _He’s_ allowed to go wherever he wants too, you know,” says Alistair suddenly.

Daylen speaks through a smirk. “And I suppose _you’d_ know where that is?”

Zevran keeps moving, but the ten feet between them feels electrically charged. He trains his eyes on Daylen’s face and smiles.

_Stop talking, Alistair. Maker… stop…_

“No. I wouldn’t presume to know what’s _best_ for someone else,” says Alistair.

Daylen looks surprised, but not angry. He snorts and runs a hand through his hair gently. “Get some sleep, Al… we have work to do tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

**Alistair**

Through the night, Alistair tosses and turns. He eventually gives up on sleep and stalks around his bedroom until dawn, having arguments with himself. He seriously considers going down the hallway to Daylen’s room and demanding a minute with Zevran. He thinks he could make him understand if he just had adequate time… even the span of a few sentences.

...but he doesn’t leave his room.

 

“Al?” calls Daylen a few hours later. He bursts into the room without knocking; _it’s so like him_.

“Yes?”

“Wow… you look tired… having trouble sleeping?” Daylen perches himself on the edge of a chair near the fireplace. For someone so big and strong, he’s awfully graceful. It’s one of the things Alistair used to envy; now he _hates_ it.

“Just tonight,” answers Alistair evasively.

“Ahh… well…” Daylen looks down at his palms disinterestedly. “I’m going out of the city to meet a contact. I won’t be back until tomorrow morning,” he says.

Alistair squints.

“I need to gather some materials. When I get back, we’ll be ready.” He pauses and fixes Alistair with a gaze so penetrating it almost hurts. “That is… if _you’re_ ready.”

Alistair rolls his eyes.

Daylen laughs. “Ten years ago you weren’t brave enough to do that _to me_.” He gestures vaguely toward Alistair’s expression. “The years really _have_ changed you…”

Alistair wants to say something else—something about what _else_ has changed—but he doesn’t get the chance.

“I’m leaving, Al,” says Daylen softly. He stands and walks toward the door. “I’ll be back before you know it—with a cure.” He winks and leaves.

Alistair is left not knowing why he came any more than he understands anything else these days. A pit forms in his stomach: one part lack of sleep, one part uncertainty. It’s the kind of thing that once led him to anonymous alleys… the kind of thing that led him to Zevran…

He grabs the back of the chair nearest him for support. This has to _stop_. With new resolve, he decides it’s time to make a change.

He waits until he sees the guards open the city gates and Daylen’s visage disappear into the distance. He doesn’t want any interruptions for what he has to say. When he’s sure—as sure as he _can_ be in this situation—he stalks down the hallway toward where he knows Zevran will be and knocks.

“Come in,” says Zevran softly.

Alistair peeks around the doorway. Zevran is sitting on the edge of the bed. When their eyes meet, his words seem to dry up.

“What are you doing here?” asks Zevran. His spine straightens and his face becomes a mask.

“I need to know what’s happening,” says Alistair. He closes the door behind him, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Zevran for a second.

“I don’t know what you mean,” says Zevran coolly.

Alistair swallows hard. “I _need_ to talk to you,” he manages. “...I… I can’t stand this… to see you… _like this_.” He pauses and crosses the room to stand next to the bed—just a foot away. “ _Please_ , Zevran…”

Zevran regards him with something like horror. It’s then that Alistair realizes he’s entirely at Zevran’s mercy. There’s nothing to do but wait.

 

* * *

 

**Zevran**

The look on Alistair’s face stabs through Zevran. He’s causing him pain—the only person he’s ever really cared about… really _loved_. It’s upon this realization that Zevran feels that telltale sign of crying again—a choking, strangling, painful lump in the back of his throat. Before Alistair, he hadn’t felt that pain in so many years—he pushed it down; he buried it. He didn’t know all it would take is _one_ person to unearth it—one infuriating, ridiculous… _amazing…_ person.

“Please,” repeats Alistair. He reaches out so gently—like Zevran is made of glass. “Please talk to me.”

“Don’t you see?” cries Zevran, retracting his limbs. “I’m _ruined_.”

Alistair shakes his head and crawls across the bedspread, following him. In any other situation—with any other person—it might be aggressive, but there’s nothing obligatory about the way he asking. “Please Zevran, don’t say that.”

Zevran blinks the tears out of his eyes. “It’s true. I wasn’t whole before, either, but now that he’s back… I’m… I can’t—”

Alistair drops his hands into his lap and looks deeply into Zevran’s eyes. “You’re perfect. ...and I _love_ you.”

 

Zevran doesn’t know how it happens, but he finds himself in Alistair’s bedroom—between those sheets where everything good and sweet and soft happens; where everything he once hated transpires…

Alistair wraps his arms around him and pulls the comforters up over their heads. He kisses every obvious wound—burn and bruise alike—and he sighs at each one, as if he’ll be able to fix them.

 _Maybe he will_.

“Love,” Alistair whispers. Zevran knows it isn’t attached to a sentence, though. It’s a declaration—a reminder that Alistair thinks of him as someone _worthy_ of that title. Zevran doesn’t believe it—he never has—but, right now, he _wants_ to.

Soon, they’re rutting together—hands and lips and limbs intermingled. In all his years of sexual exploration, this might be something he’s never done. Even as he comes against Alistair’s stomach, he wonders what this _is_. Even as he kisses Alistair’s forehead and nose and chin, he can’t comprehend it. Even as they drift off to sleep together, he doubts.

 

In fact, it isn’t until the next morning that he starts to understand. Alistair kisses his forehead and drags his hand across Zevran’s chest.

Zevran opens his eyes; it’s just before dawn.

“I love you,” he whispers against Alistair’s ear. The words feel foreign on his tongue, but he means them.

“I love you too,” says Alistair. He blinks a few times and stretches both his arms overhead.

Zevran fits himself into the space below Alistair’s arm and kisses the skin of his chest.

“Why did you leave?” asks Alistair suddenly. He sounds scared of the answer.

“I had to,” Zevran answers. “It’s how I got you out of prison.”

Alistair crooks his neck to look into Zevran’s face. “What do you mean?”

“I made a deal… they’d let you go if I went back to Antiva… for the Crows,” admits Zevran. “Our time was up.”

“What did you have to do for them?”

“Run part of the organization... Cut all ties with everyone… _forever_.”

Alistair’s expression softens. “You did that _for me_?”

Zevran smiles, despite how sad this is. “I would have done even more.”

In reality, he was doing _even more_ just yesterday. Every second he was with Daylen, he wanted to bolt, but he kept Alistair’s cure in the back of his mind.

“How are you going to get out of it now?” asks Alistair.

“I’m not,” admits Zevran. “...but if I can just stay alive long enough to finish this… for you...”

“For _me_?” Alistair squints.

“You need my blood,” he says. “I’d open a vein right now if it would help.”

Alistair shivers and pulls Zevran more tightly against his chest.

They breathe together. It’s a strange mixture of melancholy and romance.

“I have to get out of here,” says Zevran suddenly. He tries to sit up.

Alistair pulls him back. “Where are you going?”

“I have to get back before Daylen does…” says Zevran.

Alistair’s eyes widen. “You’re going _back_?”

“I _have_ to,” says Zevran. “He can’t know I was gone.”

“Wait,” Alistair sits up. “What are you talking about?”

“He won’t save you if I don’t stay with him,” Zevran says. “We need him.”

Alistair grips Zevran’s arm a little too tight. It just happens to be over a deep purple bruise that hasn’t healed from the other day.

Zevran winces.

“Let me see that,” says Alistair. He pulls Zevran’s arm into the light. “How did this happen?”

Zevran doesn’t want to tell him. He sidesteps the question: “It wasn’t the worst… I mean… there have been _other_ things…”

Alistair stands suddenly. “I’m going to kill him.” He sounds like he means it.

“Alistair, stop.” Zevran rolls his eyes, but there is no malice in it. He can’t even _fake_ derision.

“You don’t have to do this,” Alistair says.

“I know.”

They stare at each other. Zevran wants to explain it in a way that Alistair will understand, but he barely knows how to say the _simplest_ things to a person he loves, let alone something of this complexity, so he stays quiet.

“I’m scared he’s going to hurt you...more,” Alistair says. His posture softens and he nuzzles into the skin of Zevran’s neck.

“Tesoro, _many_ people have tried to hurt me,” Zevran laughs. “Few have succeeded.”

Alistair shrugs.

“...besides, what would hurt me the most of all is losing you. Whether I’m here or in Antiva, I need to know that you’re safe.”

At that, Alistair looks up. “I’m safe _right now_ , you know.”

Zevran squints.

“I’m safe,” he repeats. “I’m not going to die tomorrow. I have years and years left—plenty of time for others to find this _supposed_ cure.”

Zevran starts to shake his head. He stands up and begins dressing to drive the point home that he thinks this line of reasoning is _ridiculous_.

“Zevran, we need to fight back.” He folds his arms across his chest. He looks _sure_.

“What do you mean?”

Alistair doesn’t answer him. He just stands and dresses before calling down the hall for an aide. Zevran watches skeptically.

“Yes,” Alistair tells the aid, “When the Hero of Ferelden returns, stop him at the gates. We need to _talk_.”

* * *

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair tries to get Daylen to leave. All hell breaks loose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: violence, blood, death, self-loathing... you know... typical...

* * *

**Alistair**

 

It’s ridiculous, of course. No one can oppose Daylen. That’s _why_ he’s so famous. That’s _why_ he ended a blight almost single-handedly. And yet, here Alistair is: trying to stop him at the gates. He puffs his chest out and tries to feel brave.

“Hi, Al,” says Daylen skeptically. He smirks, which is nearly as infuriating as his shrugging.

Alistair feels an urge to say _Hi_ back, but he resists. “I need to talk to you.”

Daylen hops off his horse and manages to smile as he saunters up to Alistair. Peripherally, Alistair notices that the guards—the ones who ostensibly work _for him_ —are starstruck. They’re barely even holding up their shields. And why shouldn’t they be? This is the man who saved them—all of them—just fifteen years earlier.

“Not here,” adds Alistair. He motions for Daylen to follow him through a gate into a small room off the battlements. In the years since he took control of the city, it has been significantly reinforced. He never exactly knew what he was reinforcing it _against_ , but everyone with any political power demanded the construction. Now, it feels like he put entirely the wrong kind of defenses in place. He should have warded the whole place against people like Daylen.

On the topic of Daylen—that is to say _blood magic_ —Alistair’s mind hitches. It’s controversial, of course; people say it in hushed whispers and hoarse tones, but it’s not something that ever actually _bothered_ Alistair—not once he got to know Daylen. He knew Daylen cut corners; he knew he made deals and didn’t treat everyone exactly as he should, but Alistair was, for the most part, _okay_ with that. He was convinced that the ends justified the means—in a lot of ways, he still is. But now, with Zevran hanging in the balance, he’s feeling a little like a templar again.

The room is small, filled with broken armor and bent swords. A bucket of dirty water gives the whole place a vaguely nauseating smell. Daylen clearly notices it, because he wrinkles his nose and coughs.

“Well?” Daylen rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling. “What do you want?”

Alistair’s words dry up. He opens his mouth a few times and sucks air into his lungs, but nothing comes out. By the time Daylen starts to look skeptical, Alistair is ready to be blunt: to yell, to shout, to make demands. But none of that happens.

“Daylen?” calls a voice.

Alistair knows who it is before he sees. His heart sinks.

“You’re back?” asks Zevran. He smiles. To Alistair, it looks like he’s _exceedingly_ happy to see Daylen. A few seconds pass wherein Alistair has to talk himself out of _believing_ that look. Zevran is good at lies, he reminds himself.

Daylen turns. “Yes.”

They touch briefly—just fingers outstretched in the expanse between them, but it hurts.

“Where are you headed?” asks Zevran.

“Back to you as soon as Alistair says _whatever_ it is he wants to say?” jokes Daylen.

Alistair bristles. “Daylen, you can’t stay here,” he blurts.

Daylen raises an eyebrow in disbelief. He almost _laughs._

“You need to leave—tonight,” reiterates Alistair.

The temperature of the room seems to change. If Alistair weren’t familiar with Daylen (and his abilities) he would think it was his imagination… but because he _knows_ Daylen—and what he’s capable of—he knows it’s actually happening. Even as the hair on his arms rises, Alistair braces himself for more… the inevitable explosion.

“And what of you, Al?” asks Daylen. His tone is utterly flat—as if they’re discussing the weather. “What will you do when your day comes, then? Go to the deep roads with the rest of them?”

Alistair swallows. He doesn’t _want_ to die… people have a strong propensity toward surviving, after all… but as his eyes scan the room, he remembers: Zevran is in danger; Daylen _is_ that danger.

“I’ll do whatever needs to be done,” he says. His voice doesn’t shake and his expression remains neutral, but he’s terrified.

Then Daylen _laughs_ —a gentle, musical sound. “Al, have you lost your mind? What is this even _about_?” He looks at Zevran again—just a tiny flick of his eyes, but Alistair knows he’s _supposed_ to see it.

Alistair takes a deep breath, readying arguments, but before he can open his mouth to speak, Zevran interrupts him.

“Nevermind him,” says Zevran. He _laughs_ , actually, which seems needlessly cruel. “Let’s go…” He moves toward the door, but Daylen catches him by the wrist.

“Wait,” he says definitely. “I want to know what Al was about to say…”

Alistair watches while Daylen’s fingers tighten around Zevran’s wrist. It looks firm enough to hurt, but Zevran actually seems to relax into it.

“Come on…” says Zevran again. He’s clearly _asking_ , though—there’s no fight in his tone… and that’s what changes everything.

“Daylen, you’re done,” Alistair says suddenly. “Leave before I have you removed.”

Daylen raises an eyebrow, but his expression changes when Alistair keeps staring at him. He looks back and forth between Alistair and Zevran pointedly. “Zevran, you’re not trying to get me out of this room, are you?”

Zevran shakes his head gently, but even Alistair doesn’t believe it, let alone Daylen: the lie isn’t working.

“Because I’d hate to think that you and Al have cooked this up together—so _amateurish_ of you…” Then he yanks on Zevran’s wrist—a traction so quick Alistair hears something _snap_.

Zevran doesn’t cry out, but he winces, eyes instantly glassy.

...and that’s all it takes.

 

* * *

 

**Zevran**

 

Zevran knows his wrist is broken instantly. Even as the pain blinds him and shock begins to set in, he watches Alistair leap to action. While everything around him slows down, Alistair seems to speed up. One second he’s across the room, and the next he’s tackled Daylen to the floor. Zevran’s hand pops free, and although it’s disjointed and useless, he retracts it toward his chest and cradles it as he staggers back against the wall.

A bright blue light floods the room and Zevran blinks against it. His entire consciousness seems to _be_ that light; for an instant, he thinks he’ll pass out, but he doesn’t. Instead, he watches—horrified—as Daylen tries to raise his hand to Alistair’s face. He claws, desperately, trying to get Alistair off of him, but he’s not strong enough.

A scream—they roll… once, twice, smacking into wooden buckets and sending ancillary metal shields clanging to the ground all around them. Zevran barely avoids a crash by backing into the corner.

He’s not prone to being scared; he’s not prone to cowering, but he _does_ … cower… and he _is_ … scared. He swallows against a lump in his throat and blinks his eyes open, ignoring the pain he feels and wondering if it’s for himself or for what he fears… if it’s for Alistair.

He’s about to jump into the fray—to do something, _anything_ , to stop this… but he isn’t fast enough.

Daylen manages to get one spell out in the air and he stands. It’s invisible, but Zevran knows the signs: a trail of blood appears at Alistair’s ear and he shakes his head violently against something Zevran imagines to be horribly painful.

“Daylen, stop!” yells Alistair. He balls his hands into fists against Daylen’s shirt and pushes him back—hard. Daylen hits the wall with a shout, but doesn’t stop moving. “Just. _Leave_ ,” yells Alistair again.

Daylen struggles to get out of Alistair’s grasp, but he can’t. He curses, flailing wildly. A wayward spell shoots out toward Zevran, knocking him backward into the wall. His head swims as it crashes into the hard stone and he tastes blood as it trickles down his cheek toward his lips.

“Daylen,” growls Alistair. “Don’t _do_ this.” He strikes out with his right arm—fist connecting with Daylen’s jaw. Daylen unwittingly spits blood in an arc and tries to right himself—blood dripping from his nose and a bruise already forming over his left eye.

Somehow, Alistair has managed to gain the upper hand. Zevran isn’t sure if it was the element of surprise or if something has changed about Alistair _fundamentally_ , but Daylen crumbles against the wall behind him and Alistair kneels.

“I warned you,” Alistair mutters, his hands moving up Daylen’s shirt to his neck—hands that are so _gentle_. Hands that help, not hurt.

 _Oh god, no_.

“ _Don’t_ ,” says Zevran suddenly. He’s surprised to hear himself say it and even more surprised at how it sounds: a timid, rasping plea.

Alistair doesn’t even look up; he squeezes harder, fingers blanching where they cut into the quickly reddening skin of Daylen’s throat, forcing tributaries of blood to change their path from Daylen’s nose and lip to his collar.

Daylen tears at Alistair’s forearms with decreasing strength, eyes closing of their own volition, gasping, gurgling, and choking.

“Alistair!” yells Zevran, staggering away from the wall.

...but it’s too late.

  

* * *

 

**Alistair**

 

Alistair backs up, suddenly himself. He watches Daylen’s body drop sideways against the wall into a heap of broken practice swords and vaguely wet sawdust.

Zevran shouts something, but Alistair can’t hear it. Alistair watches him pace around the body, looking frantic. There’s a gash on his left cheek and his hair is coming out of its braids in spots— _collateral damage._

“I couldn’t let him hurt you,” says Alistair, not believing any of this is real.

Zevran scoffs bitterly. “Well, you only succeeded in guaranteeing your own demise. Nice work, Al.” His voice shakes, though; it isn’t like him _at all_.

Alistair bites his bottom lip. “Zevran…”

Zevran keeps walking around the body; he’s pulling at a dirty tarp, starting to roll it diagonally.

“Zevran,” Alistair repeats. “Listen to me.”

Zevran looks up. He drops the corner of the tarp and stares.

“I already knew I was going to die,” says Alistair seriously. “The only person who didn’t believe that is _you_.”

Zevran swallows visibly. Alistair watches his throat tighten and a vein in his forehead pulse.

“I don’t even think Daylen believed it,” adds Alistair. “And…” He almost loses his nerve, “he never would have let you go— _never_.”

Zevran purses his lips. He still won’t speak.

“And I wouldn’t _want_ to live in a world where I let someone hurt you, Zevran…” Alistair continues. “Not that you can’t choose for yourself… but _I_ was the reason. I can’t live with that, Zev…”

Zevran swallows. He looks more uncomfortable than Alistair has ever seen. They stare at each other silently for a moment—Daylen’s body between them, bleeding into a puddle on the floor. It’s a macabre reminder of what they’ve given up for each other, but Alistair would have done even more.

 

They spend hours disposing of Daylen’s body. Alistair remembers making dead drops _with_ him before… A lifetime ago, they disposed of other bodies in sacks, over Alistair’s protestations. After a while, he pretended the sacks here filled with potatoes. He imagined the smell was rotted vegetables and they were doing the famers a favor. He imagined he was _good_ , even as a voice inside insisted he wasn’t. And in the years that passed since then, he tried to make amends; he thought he’d done it. Today proves all that effort was pointless; he was never good at all.

Zevran doesn’t speak during the entire ordeal, but that’s better. Alistair doesn’t know what he’d say if he did.

By the time they’re done, they are breathless and sweaty from the exertion _and_ the stress, in the middle of Denerim’s market. Alistair is dressed inconspicuously, of course. It’s amazing how much _costumes_ matter; no one seems to recognize him. No one even gives him a second glance… except Zevran. He looks at Alistair with so much scrutiny, Alistair could cry.

Without thinking, Alistair leads them to that little cottage by the water. He unlocks the door and coughs dust when they get inside—no one has touched the place since they were here before.

“We better clean up,” says Alistair. He looks at his hands—they look like warrior’s hands; it’s been so long since he fought… he finds he doesn’t really have the stomach for it anymore; the sight of the blood in the creases of his fingers makes him gag… which begs the question, _how did he do it?_ How can he be a killer while his body resists it even viscerally? What has he _become_?

“I have to leave,” Zevran announces suddenly.

“What?”

Alistair looks up, dazed.

“I needed to leave before,” continues Zevran. He pulls his wrist back toward his chest, cradling it protectively and looks around the room. “I can’t stay now.”

Alistair wants to argue, but he can’t find the words. Even if he could have convinced Zevran to stay before, he couldn’t now… now that he’s proven he’s no better than Daylen: violent, unpredictable, _murderous_. It’s then that he realizes he hates himself.

“I’ll set out in the morning,” continues Zevran. “It’s nearly dark.”

...and Alistair doesn’t want to do it, but he finds himself crossing the room, arms outstretched. He curls them around Zevran, expecting resistance, but there is none. Zevran _lets_ himself be held—utterly without hesitation… but _also_ utterly without reciprocation. He stands—still and lifeless as Daylen’s body as it fell into the pit.

“I love you,” says Alistair. And he means it just as much as he did. In fact, he thinks he might even mean it more, but it’s ruined.

“I know,” says Zevran. “...I _know_.”

* * *

 

**10 Years Later**

**Zevran**

 

“His death marks the end of a great age of Kings,” someone is saying. Another person whispers quietly, hiding a smirk. The lives and deaths of nobility are everyone’s business.

Zevran threads through the crowd without brushing past a single shoulder or outstretched hand—he’s good at things like that by now. And, actually, if he’s honest, he always was… except…

During the period of his life that he let himself fall in with Alistair—that bright _and_ dark period he rarely thinks about—he might not have been quite as good. That’s what attachment does: clouds everything, dulls the senses.

“He was so young…” says someone else. “Not even fifty.”

He _was_ and _wasn’t_ , in Zevran’s estimation. Alistair’s life aged him, but his soul was young—full of life and all the propensity to make mistakes that youth entails. Alistair was nothing if not brave… and isn’t bravery a sign of boyishness? Isn’t it a result of immaturity? Isn’t it the sign that nothing is as solid as it seems?

To Zevran, bravery means stupidity now… and he regrets no one’s bravery as much as he regrets his own during the time when he knew Alistair—those few months when everything seemed like it was going to fall into place.

 _Ridiculous_.

“Oh, excuse me,” says a small woman. She only comes up to Zevran’s shoulder; her hair is almost completely white, but still, Zevran sees some semblance of youth in her eyes that he doesn’t expect. It’s almost like… someone he knew…

“Don’t concern yourself,” he says.

“Thank you,” she answers, wiping a stray tear from her eye as she looks back toward the head of the room. “It’s a hard day…”

Zevran nods absently. He’s made the mistake of following her gaze. A code of arms hangs heavily above the alter. Over the heads of the crowd he can’t see the body, but he can imagine it just as vividly. Only, the face he remembers is skewed to the one he never knew at all—the version of Alistair who killed, the version filled with rage. He doesn’t _blame_ Alistair, of course… after all this time, Zevran knows: it’s him. He ruins everything he touches.

“Did you know him?” the woman asks suddenly.

Zevran turns back, trying hard not to let his mask break. “No, not at all.”

She smiles sadly, looking at the floor. “Neither did I… but I wish that I did.”

“Oh?” He looks at her searchingly, but she won’t meet his gaze.

“I’ve heard he was gentle,” she says. “...and fiercely loyal… a protector, really.”

Zevran swallows thickly.

“...exactly the kind of person you’d want to have on your side…” she continues.

“Yes,” says Zevran. “I suppose he was all those things…”

She looks up suddenly. “I thought you didn’t know him?”

Zevran pauses, cursing his inability to think straight—even in death Alistair seems to have this effect on him. “I… I knew another version of him,” he amends. “Someone who only existed for a while.”

The woman peers at him through slitted eyes. “Yes. I can see that,” she says finally and then turns to leave.

Zevran wants to ask her to stay; wants to ask who she is and _what_ she knows… but he doesn’t. What good would it do? Would it change the flow of time? Would it bring Alistair back?  _No_. This is the way it always had to end. It was only _youth_ that made it seem like anything else.

So he pulls his cloak more tightly around his shoulders and disappears into the line of mourners, remembering the way Alistair looked on that last day and all the days before. Remembering what it felt like to be loved… and knowing what he knew then too: it was too good to be true.

The line moves forward glacially. Twice, he thinks about leaving before he reaches the casket, but something stops him. He’s acutely aware of each step that propels him forward, the sound of feet scuffing against red carpet, hushed whispers and stifled sobs.

It isn’t until he reaches the edge of that arbitrarily exalted wooden box that he _feels_ it, though—this death.

 _Maker_.

He grabs the edge of the casket and leans. He is at once entirely rigid and barely able to stand upright. He regrets that he left. He regrets the years he stayed away. And more than anything else, he regrets that he never said the _words_ … Someone over his shoulder glowers with peripheral intrigue as he continues to grip the smooth wood, holding up the precessional’s progress.

The back of his throat is dry and his jaw feels tight as a vice, but there are words there—the old ones, the ones he tries to forget in the space where dreams make him remember. He attempts to swallow them down, chokes over their jagged edges as they try to cut their way through his teeth… and then… he realizes… there’s nothing to do but give in.

“I love you too,” he whispers, shocked at the sound of his own voice.

Someone gasps. Whispers swell.

“I _love_ you,” he says again, dropping his forehead to the cold, lifeless hollow of Alistair’s chest.

An attendant rushes over to him—pulls Zevran back by his shoulders—but in the moment of contact, Zevran knows: it’s time to forgive himself… and… Alistair would have forgiven him too.

 

THE END

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter took me _forever_ to publish because I was internally opposed to where it needed to go. I had all kinds of other garbage ideas of how to get them out of this. This morning, I decided I couldn't run from it anymore... this is where it always had to end... so thanks, LB, for the help, and thank you to all the fans who stuck with this and subscribed and bookmarked for MONTHS before I could get my act together to finish it. Sometimes endings are sad... but they can't have been anything else. 
> 
> Thanks again. <3
> 
> and...if you're depressed... i've been writing lots of other non-depressing stuff lately. go check it out. :)


End file.
